


Rare and Transient Fire

by synchronysymphony



Series: Keep Me in the Light [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Eating Disorders, Enjolras POV, Hospitals, I'll put it on each chapter header, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Suicidal Ideation, not really focused on the e/r tbh more like....friendship???, phone fic, probably other trigger stuff too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-08-20 04:19:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 120,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8235859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synchronysymphony/pseuds/synchronysymphony
Summary: Recovery isn't as easy as the literature makes it sound.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't even going to publish this, but then it got really long, and I needed somewhere to store it, so \\_(ツ)_/  
> Be warned that it's unedited, and not really great and probably will never really get finished because I'm just going to keep on adding stuff. It's kind of sad and self-indulgent, because I just wrote it on my phone whenever I was having A Time.  
> Anyway~ this is pretty much based on my own experiences (like, a lot of it anyway). Please be aware that I'm not attempting to speak for everyone, and my views and experiences don't necessarily reflect those of the larger community. And, of course, if you or anyone you know is experiencing the things that Enjolras does, please contact someone if you can, because (I can totally tell you) this is a serious issue! Take care of yourselves okay!!!

"I feel so fat right now. Can you tell?"

Enjolras regrets the words as soon as he says them. He hadn't meant to, really, but they sort of spilled out before he could stop them. That's how it is. He can't control the thoughts that come unbidden into his head, but sometimes he can control whether or not they come out. And then sometimes, he can't.

Musichetta is looking at him now. It's not a full-on glare, but it's bad enough.

"What's wrong with being fat, pray tell?" she asks. Her voice is icy.

"Nothing, nothing at all. It's just, for me..."

"So, what. You're better than everyone else?"

"No, no! Of course not! I'm worse, actually, I... Listen, I'm sorry I said that. Could we just forget it?"

"I don't think we should," says Bossuet. "We can't just move on and ignore it whenever you say anything problematic. We need to address this."

Enjolras bows his head. He knows Bossuet is right. It doesn't matter that he couldn't control his thoughts; he said it sure enough, and no matter what his intentions were, it was bad. He did bad. He needs to be better, needs to stop being such a burden on the world. There's no excuse he could possibly offer, no absolutions he could make. So what if he feels like he's dissolving inside, three steps away from a panic attack, dizzy and light-headed because he couldn't make himself eat anything for the past two days? That doesn't mean anything. If he can't be his best, always, he's nothing, and deserves-

"What are you doing?"

Musichetta's voice snaps him back to reality. She's staring at him now, hard enough to make him want to cower away. Why is it so hard to look people in the eyes?

"I'm not... I'm sorry, let me apologize, please let me be better. I need to do better-"

"No, right now. What are you doing?"

Enjolras looks down at his lap. Without noticing, he's pushed up the sleeves of his jacket, and is tearing at the skin on his wrist. Even though his nails aren't very long, he's managed to open up the more recent wounds there, and is bleeding rather noticeably. 

"Oh," he says mechanically. "Sorry. I didn't realize."

"You didn't _realize_?"

"What's gotten into you?" asks Bossuet. "Usually, you're so good at accepting criticism and admitting your mistakes. But right now, you're so grumpy."

"Babe." 

Musichetta touches his arm in warning. Whatever look passes between them must say volumes, because immediately, he's coming over to kneel down in front of the couch.

"I'm sorry, Enjolras. I didn't realize you were doing… that. Are you okay? Does it hurt?"

It doesn't, not enough, anyway. But even if it did, Enjolras wouldn't deserve this measure of kindness. He shakes his head.

"No, I'm sorry. It doesn't matter. Please, you shouldn't let this distract you. I need to do better."

"Obviously, we're not going to try and deal with this when you're feeling so anxious. We'll talk about it later."

"No, we have to... I can't just get away with this, I can't-"

Musichetta purses her lips. "This won't do. Okay, I'm calling Combeferre."

Bossuet nods, frowning. He’s obviously feeling bad about this, which is ridiculous, because none of this is his fault, but that’s just how he is, much too nice for his own good. 

“Call him,” he says. “And tell him to hurry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from Proust obvi bc I'm Like That  
> also I set this at UCLA because that's where I go and it's the place I know best obviously, but you can read it from anywhere! just replace the names with anything you'd like :3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh by the way, this story is chronological, but it's sort of told in vignettes, so if something doesn't follow, then that's how I wrote it~ your browser didn't crash and delete it LOL  
> tw: brief misgendering + gendered slurs, suicidal ideation, unhealthy thought processes

Enjolras has turned down the last four invitations his friends have extended to him, and he feels bad about it, but he can't make himself go out and eat with them. He just _can't_. It's been awhile since he could even handle being in the same room with someone while they're eating. But tonight he's feeling a little better, and the others have promised drinks, so he thinks he can handle that. He can be around alcohol, no problem.

It should be fine.

Courfeyrac comes back to the apartment to pick him up, dressed to the nines as usual, skin-tight pants, crop top, and massive amounts of glitter. He's been bar-hopping already, and it shows. Enjolras wishes he had the confidence to dress like that, attract attention, make himself the main focus of the room. He used to sometimes, when he was having a particularly good day, but it's been awhile since he's had one of those. He smiles at Courfeyrac, though, because he might be ashamed of himself, but this is one of his best friends, and he looks amazing. 

"You look so good."

"Thanks, cutie." Courfeyrac winks at him. "Wanna do match-match tonight? I'm sure I can find your star top somewhere."

Enjolras feels a cold knot start to rise in his chest. "No, that's okay. I'm already dressed."

"You're wearing that?" Courfeyrac plucks at Enjolras's baggy sweater, eyes narrowed. "This is so frumpy! It doesn't even show any skin!"

"That's okay. I'm wearing these leggings, see? They're tight."

"I guess. But are you sure you don't want to show off more? You have a great body, you know."

"No, I don't."

"You do! Look at you!" Courfeyrac puts his hands on either side of Enjolras's waist. "Here, see. You have the curves, but you're also skinny. And you're short, but you're well proportioned. Honestly, you're a stunner. You should show off more!"

"Oh. Well, thank you." 

Enjolras doesn't quite know what else to say. He appreciates the compliment, of course; it may not quite reach his brain, but it still feels nice. But the logical part of him knows that he shouldn't be happy about this. _Don't talk about your body if you can help it_ , wasn't that the rule at the hospital? He's not supposed to find validation in people calling him skinny.

"Hey, are you okay?"

Courfeyrac's voice is kind and soft, but it's still a jolt to Enjolras's system. He does his best to smile.

"I'm great. Just thinking about what I'm going to drink first."

"Now _that's_ what I'm talking about!" Courfeyrac slaps him on the back, fortunately not noticing when he winces. "Come on, let's get going!"

The bar is crowded, which isn't unusual for a Thursday night, but it’s not doing any miracles for Enjolras’s anxiety. He tails Courfeyrac closely as they make their way over to meet their friends. Some people stare at him, and a few whistle or wave, but it's fewer than usual. Usually, he would have had to turn down at least two people by now. Maybe his outfit is doing him a service after all. Still, he sticks close to Courfeyrac until they make it over to the table in the corner where their friends have set up shop. Immediately, Combeferre is standing up to greet them.

"Finally! I thought you guys would never make it!"

"Sorry." Courfeyrac grins and points at Enjolras with a flourish. "I was trying to get this little grandma to change clothes."

Everyone turns to stare. Enjolras wants to roll under the table and hide there until they all go away. It's all too much, all this noise and eye contact and piercing neon lights, and the insistent throbbing in his head that's been there for almost two days now. He has to do something.

"Don't worry, we made it, though," he says as brightly as he can. "Does anyone want to get me a drink?"

Combeferre mutters something about "youngsters," but he ruffles Enjolras's hair affectionately and goes over to the bar. Courfeyrac smiles, pushes Enjolras towards the table, and goes to follow him.

"Behave while I'm gone!" he calls over his shoulder. 

Enjolras goes to sit down beside Joly. If past Thursday nights have been any indication, he's probably really high right now, so he won't try and make Enjolras do anything hard like join in the conversation. At least, that's the hope. 

Sure enough, he smiles dreamily and puts an arm around Enjolras. "Lie on my shoulder," he says. "Then I won't fly away."

Enjolras really loves Joly. He settles down against the comforting embrace and lets the world wash over him. This is okay. This, he can do.

It goes to hell only a little while later. Courfeyrac has pulled Enjolras over to the bar to act as his wingman while he tries to flirt with the cute bartender, because Enjolras might be conventionally attractive, but he's so socially awkward that he could make Marius look good in comparison. Courfeyrac doesn't really need the help, though; he seems to be getting along just fine. Enjolras is left staring disconsolately into the glass of Jameson that his fake ID and Courfeyrac's charm got him (no juice, no chaser– drinks might be okay, but he doesn't want the extra calories if it's not necessary). Usually he's not a sad drunk, but something about the night is depressing, so he's trying to come up with an algorithm to calculate how soon he can leave without anyone suspecting that something's wrong. It's not going well. All his answers are telling him that he needs to stay for at least another hour. 

He drains his glass, whiskey-drinking etiquette be damned, and is deciding what to get next, when a heavy figure slides in front of him.

"Hey, pretty mama."

Oh no. Of course this would happen. Enjolras puts on his best blank face and stays quiet, though he does nod out of sheer reflex.

“Hey, you should smile.”

"No thank you."

Enjolras turns away, hoping that will be the end of it. Of course it isn't. The man grabs him and turns him back around.

"I said, you should smile. I gave you a compliment. What's wrong with you? Can't you take a compliment?"

"That wasn't a compliment."

"You stuck up bitch, you think you're too good or something?"

"Leave me alone, please."

"Bitch." The man gets in Enjolras's face. He's even creepier up close. "I don't think you're being very polite. I think we should teach you to be a good girl and talk nice to guys who just want to give you a compliment."

Enjolras doesn't want to know who 'we' is. He just wants to get away. Where in the world is Courfeyrac? He's probably having a quickie in the bathroom with the bartender. Just typical. 

"Go away," he says. 

He doesn't get a chance to see whether or not this works, because at this moment, a large hand comes up to wrap around his waist. 

"What's going on here?"

The voice is low and gravelly and possibly the sweetest sound Enjolras could hope to hear. He cranes his head to look up.

"Grantaire!"

"Hi, sweetheart." Grantaire smiles at him briefly before turning his attention back to the man. "What are you doing here? Fuck off."

The man gives him an oily smile. "Sorry, man. I didn't realize she already belonged to somebody. All right, all yours."

Grantaire starts forward. He's glaring so hard that the veins are popping out on his forehead. He clenches his fists and growls.

“Listen here–”

"No!" Enjolras hops off the stool to get in between them. "Please don't fight."

"But he can't-"

"Please!"

"Okay." Grantaire glares at the man once more, then deliberately turns his back on him. He puts an arm around Enjolras to lead him away. "Are you okay? He didn't hurt you, did he?"

Enjolras shakes his head. He's had much worse, even in this same bar, so he doesn't blame Grantaire for worrying. But he's fine. He got lucky this time.

"I'm glad you came when you did," he says. 

"I wish I'd come earlier. I'm sorry, love, but I just got here. The meeting ran over."

"No, don't worry. You're here now, and that's all that matters." Grantaire kisses him on the forehead, and he smiles, just an inch. "How was it, anyway?"

"It was kind of what you'd expect. All the higher-ups are trying to get funding for the NCD project, but of course there's the faction that wants to block it, so it was kind of a bloodbath."

Grantaire continues talking as they wind their way over to their friends. He's good at keeping Enjolras's mind at least semi-occupied so he doesn't keep running through the hamster ball of intrusive thoughts. At least, he's not outright panicking, and he's not quite as anxious anymore, so that's something. He tries to ask pertinent questions and keep up with the conversation, even when they reach their friends and sit down together. It's hard, but he's doing his best. Maybe, if he had more to drink...?

He's not sure when it happens, or at one point _this much_ becomes _too much_ , but when the lights blur into photoplay orbs, buzzing together with the noise in his head to create a tapestry that's much more of a cacophony than a symphony, he’s knows the evening’s gone. Everything’s so jumbled up, like beads that got into all the wrong containers.

"Cosette," he says. He thinks it's her shoulder that he's lying on. No one pays any attention. He tries to sit up (it doesn't work) and tries again. "Cosette!"

"Yeah." Cosette looks down at him, probably pursing her lips in concern, but he can't really tell. "Oh, Enjolras, you don't look so good. How much did you drink?"

He doesn't know. They all bled together after awhile. He blinks up at the ceiling, trying to get his eyes away from the light. "Cosette, I'm so dizzy."

"Yeah, you look like it, poor thing." Cosette holds her hand up to his forehead and presses it. "Here, try to stay calm, okay? When was the last time you ate anything?"

"One– no. Two days ago."

" _What_?"

"Mhm. I had a fruit cup and a cereal bar."

"Damn." 

Cosette scoots away. Enjolras wants to apologize, because he must have said or done something bad without realizing it, and he doesn't want her to hate him, but before he can think of how to word it, Combeferre is bending over him.

"Hi."

Enjolras blinks at him. Why are his glasses so shiny? Were they always like that? He should ask sometime, once he stops feeling so weird.

"I heard you're not feeling well," Combeferre continues. "Do you want to go home?"

Enjolras blinks at him some more. "No, I don't want to be a bother."

"You're not a bother. I was about to head out soon anyway."

This is probably not true. Enjolras attempts to shake his head. "No, you should stay. Have fun."

"I can't have fun when I'm too busy worrying about you."

“Oh no, I'm so sorry, I'm so–”

"No. I'm sorry, I worded that poorly. It's okay, I promise. Come on, let me take you back?"

"No, I don't want to bother you. I'm too much already, and I don't want to do this. Please, I can't ruin any more nights for you."

"You're not ruining my night, silly bunny." Combeferre scoops him up, easy as pie, and kisses him on the top of the head. "I want to do this. I had fun here, and now I'll have fun at your apartment with you. Come on, I'll drive you back."

He gets up to go, and Enjolras can't really do anything about it, so he just closes his eyes and goes along for the ride. Besides, he has to admit, it'll be nice to get home.

He doesn't remember much more that night, just snippets of a cranky Uber driver, and a dark apartment, and Combeferre brushing his hair for him and putting him to bed. It's not much different from other nights, only now it's all a sad blue haze instead of a happy gold one. When he finally goes to sleep, dizzy and sad and too empty to feel anything but the buzz of alcohol, he doesn't see anything behind his eyelids but darkness. 

\--

It's two days after his disastrous night out that Enjolras realizes what's going on.

He's standing in front of his mirror, looking at himself from different angles and trying to decide whether or not to wear a bulky sweater today. It's not a hot day, but it's humid, and he's restless. His skin feels itchy, too tight, maybe all-too-connected with the fire ants running through his mind. He touches his belly again, wondering how it got so distended– and then it hits him.

He must be pregnant.

It's not as far-fetched as it might seem. He is sexually active, although only with one person, a person who tries very, very hard to make sure everything is safe and clean. And sure, he's been taking his birth control diligently, but who knows? These things happen.

He has to sit down right where he is and think about this. What are the implications? He's never wanted children, not just because of the pain of pregnancy and childbirth, but also because he's terrified that his children would end up like him. It's not like he's ever had good role models in terms of parents, so the possibility of a messed-up kid with psychological problems seems likely. And it's not that he's opposed to starting a family with Grantaire, necessarily, but he's only 20 years old. He isn't even out of college yet. How is he supposed to make this work?

He sits for maybe ten more minutes, lost in thought. Finally, he slaps himself on the arm, a charge to shape up. This is no time for meditating, not now. Something has to be done. He doesn't know what, but fortunately, there's someone in his life who probably will.

He needs to talk to Combeferre.

\--

"Ferre."

No reaction. Enjolras could probably have foreseen this, but it's still making him nervous. He's not being ignored on purpose, right? He climbs onto the sofa and tucks himself under Combeferre's arm.

"Ferre!"

"Oh!"

Combeferre slams his book closed in shock. As he does so, he jumps and nearly catches Enjolras in a stranglehold. Enjolras feels a bit bad for disturbing him when he was so clearly engrossed in his book, but... when is he _not_ engrossed in a book? There's no better time than this.

"I'm sorry to startle you," he says. "What were you reading?"

"Just a history of the battle of Waterloo." Combeferre holds his book up, calm once more. "It's very fascinating, really. Did you know that Napoleon might have won if it hadn't rained that day?"

"Really?"

This is exactly the sort of thing Enjolras is interested in. All health questions forgotten, he shifts into a more comfortable position, curled up half on Combeferre's lap and half on the couch next to him. It's so cozy. He couldn't care less that he looks like a child.

"Read to me?"

"Okay."

Combeferre opens his book again, right to the exact page he needs (it's a talent of his, and Enjolras will never understand). He begins to read aloud in his quiet, even voice, making even the most long-winded passages expressive. Enjolras closes his eyes as he listens, allowing himself to drift away. Soon, he'll have to deal with these problems of his, but in this moment, this is okay.

He must fall asleep at some point, though he's not sure when, because the next thing he knows, Combeferre is shaking him frantically.

"Enjolras! Enjolras, wake up! What's the matter? What's wrong?"

Enjolras sits up groggily. His throat feels a little weird, now that he's thinking about it. Damn it. That means he was screaming in his sleep- again.

"Sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to scare you. It was just a bad dream."

Combeferre sniffs skeptically. "Some kind of bad dream. You were crying and yelling and I'm not even sure what you were saying, but it sounded like you were going to die. What was it?"

"My parents. My- my dad. I was back in high school again, and he was- no, I don't want to talk about it. Just, it was bad."

"Well, what can I do? I want to help."

"No, it's okay." Enjolras does his best to smile. "I'm used to this, you know."

He doesn't mention that it's been getting worse over the past few weeks. While he's always been plagued by nightmares, lately they've been so constant (not to mention terrifying) that he can barely sleep at all. It probably has something to do with his medication. He's been taking it, of course, but since he hasn't been eating, it's probably much less effective. But what can he do? It's lose-lose either way.

"It's okay," he says again. "Please don't worry. I'll be fine."

"I'm worried." Combeferre frowns at him, not angry, but deeply concerned, and that's probably worse. "What's going on, Enjolras? You haven't been yourself lately."

"Okay." Enjolras takes a deep breath and takes Combeferre's hand. It's time, now. "I have something to tell you," he says. "But you have to promise you won't get mad."

"When do I ever get mad at you?"

"No, I know. But please, I'm nervous, so try to be patient, okay?"

"Of course."

"All right. Okay." This is so hard. Enjolras swallows past a sudden wave of nausea and pinches his eyes shut. _Just go for it._ “I think I'm pregnant.”

"What."

Combeferre's voice is blank. It's not angry, not disgusted, not anything, really. He sounds like a computer. Enjolras gulps again and resumes speaking.

"I haven't taken a test, so I don't know for real. But I'm pretty sure. I haven't gotten my period this month, and I'm always having weird mood swings, and I feel sick a lot, and I'm hideous and _fat…_ ”

"Wait." Combeferre's so commanding. Enjolras looks up at him. 

"What?"

"You've been taking your birth control, right?"

"You know I have."

"And you and Grantaire use protection every time you do anything?"

"Yes."

"Then, I don't think you're pregnant."

It's like talking to a wall. Enjolras hisses in frustration. "But 'Ferre! Weren't you listening? I have all these symptoms, and it all fits-"

"You know what those symptoms are?"

No. Enjolras doesn't want to hear it. He can't. This is right, this is how it is. Combeferre can't do this, he can't break this, break _him_.

"Don't say it 'Ferre," he pleads.

"No, I'm sorry. I can't just ignore this. I know you don't want to face it, but it's happening. You're relapsing, Enjolras."

"No! I'm not, I swear. I'm doing better, I really am! I'm not doing bad, I'm not going back..."

"Hey, hey. Hush, it's all right."

Combeferre puts an arm around him. He's so comfortable, and his hugs are always the best (though rarer than one might like), but Enjolras isn't thinking about that right now. He's too busy trying not to fall apart.

"Don't tell me this," he sobs. "I don't want this, I don't want to fail! Please don't let me fail, 'Ferre!"

"It's not failing. Relapse is inevitable, you know."

"I know, but I shouldn't let it get this bad! Most people relapse by exercising a little too much one day, or body-checking once or twice after they consume some toxic media. Not- not _this_."

"Relapse comes in all different forms. There's no 'right' path."

"There's a wrong one, though. It's whatever I'm doing." Enjolras swipes at his eyes angrily. "I'm a fuck-up, 'Ferre. I can't do anything right. I'm probably going to die from this, and that's good. I want it that way."

"You don't mean that."

"I do. I want to die."

A clatter of keys dropped in front of the door disrupts the settling of this statement. Courfeyrac has come back without them noticing, and is staring at them in bug-eyed horror.

"Did you just say...?"

There's no taking it back now. It's a little awkward, but there's no lie here, so there's no choice but to go on. Enjolras nods steadily.

"I said it. I hate myself. I want to die, and the sooner, the better. I would kill myself this moment if I thought I could get away with it."

"Stop it!" Courfeyrac flies at the couch and grabs him. He shakes him back and forth, eyes blazing. "Don't you _ever_ say that, Enjolras. You hear me? You _can't_. You can't die and leave us. Please..."

He chokes off, too teary to continue speaking. Instead, he crushes Enjolras to his chest, way too tightly, actually, but it's at least sort of understandable. Enjolras knows he would be distraught if he ever heard anyone say what he just did. 

"I'm sorry," he says. "Not sorry that I mean it, because I do, but sorry that I said it. I feel bad for upsetting you."

"No! I wanted to know!"

"No, you didn't. You're contradicting yourself right now."

"Can you blame me?" Courfeyrac pulls back, fiercer than ever. "I just heard you say that you want to kill yourself. How could I ever react to that calmly? There's no way!"

"I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing!"

"Courfeyrac, that's enough."

Combeferre's voice leaves no room for disagreement. He puts a hand on Courfeyrac's shoulder and pushes him into a normal sitting position on the couch. Enjolras sits back too, trying to relieve the pins and needles in his arms. 

"Are you guys mad?" he asks. It's surprising how calm he is now. Maybe he used up his hourly quota of panicking already. 

"Absolutely not," explodes Courfeyrac. Enjolras raises his eyebrows.

"Really? You sound mad."

"I'm _not_ , okay?"

"We're not mad," says Combeferre. "We're upset, though. It's hard to hear this, Enjolras."

Enjolras shrugs. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything. Don't worry, I'll keep it to myself in the future."

"We don't want that." 

Courfeyrac shakes his head. "No. We really, really don't."

"Then, why are you so upset?"

"Why the hell wouldn't we be?"

"Well, okay. That's fair."

Everyone's quiet for a minute. Enjolras doesn't think there's anything to say. He's admitted this, not that it's a deep secret or anything, because it's true and he doesn't care who knows as long as it doesn't inconvenience them in any way, and now that's it. He doesn't want to try and explain it away or anything. This is how the pieces of his life have fallen together, and it would be ridiculous to deny it.

Finally, logical Combeferre clears his throat, Doctor Mode activated. "So, do you mind if we ask you some questions?"

"Sure."

"Okay. So, how long have you been feeling this way?"

"I don't know. All my life, I guess."

"This bad?"

"Yeah. Or well, it comes and goes, you know? But sometimes it's like this, and sometimes it's better, and usually it's worse. I almost died in my first year, for example."

Courfeyrac grabs at him sharply. "What? I didn't know this. What the hell happened?"

"Oh." Now that he's mentioned it, Enjolras doesn't really want to talk about it. It's not difficult, but it's embarrassing, although he's not exactly sure why. "It was nothing," he says. "A girl in my dorm saved me."

"That's not nothing. Enjolras, we _knew_ you then!" Courfeyrac is on the brink of tears again. It's making Enjolras feel pretty guilty.

"Look, I'm sorry," he says. "I shouldn't have said anything. I don't want you guys to feel bad. Just forget I said all this, okay?"

"We can't forget, and we don't want to. We want to know! This is just like you hiding your mental illnesses all over again!"

"I'm sorry, then. I didn't want to upset you-"

"I'm _not_ upset!"

Enjolras shrinks back. He's gotten better, but he still finds it hard to control his fear when someone raises their voice around him. Although he knows logically that Courfeyrac wouldn't hurt him, the irrational part of his brain is telling him otherwise. He grips at Combeferre's hand. 

"Don't yell, please."

"I'm not yelling!"

He is. He looks like he's about to explode. Enjolras feels the stirrings of panic start in his chest.

"I'm going to go," he says. "I'll just- yeah. Don't worry."

"Don't leave!"

 _Don't leave._ That's an order. Enjolras knows what comes next- more yelling, more violence, bruises everywhere, feeling so dirty and guilty that he'll have to punish himself for days just to lose the feeling. It's been awhile, but then, this is the sort of thing he can't escape, isn't it? He knows he's been too lucky thus far. 

"Okay," he says in a small voice. Maybe if he's good and compliant, it won't be so bad. "I know. I'm sorry."

"What?" Courfeyrac stops mid-word and looks at him like he's got two heads. "Enjolras, what's up with you all of a sudden?"

"I'm sorry, okay? I know you're mad, but please, um. I have class tomorrow. Don’t…”

"What the fuck? Okay, you're being weird! I'm not going to do anything to you! What the fuck's wrong with you?"

"Courfeyrac, you need to stop," Combeferre breaks in. He sounds mad, too. Enjolras precipitately lets go of his hand.

"I'm sorry," he says again, just for good measure. 

Combeferre turns to him. "It's okay. You don't have to apologize."

"But I upset you-"

"That's not your fault. It's okay, my dear. I know you're scared, but I promise, we're not going to hurt you."

As usual, his words snap Enjolras back to reality. He struggles with himself for a second, trying to get his mind under control. _They're not mad, they won't hurt you, they love you, and you'll be okay. They're not mad, it's okay, it's okay_.

"It's okay," he whispers. 

"Yeah." 

Combeferre lifts him up into his lap. He's always been okay with Enjolras climbing on him, professing to find it cute or endearing. Only fairly recently, though, has he begun to offer the same measure of physical affection. It seems he's finally figured out that Enjolras won't break if he picks him up. This is something to be grateful for, at least. Enjolras clings to him as tightly as his shaking fingers will allow.

"Don't hate me," he says.

"This again? No, we don't hate you. We love you, and we always mean well. Even if we scare you sometimes."

"Then, I'm sorry I got scared."

"It's okay. You can't help it, so why would we get mad at you? You didn't do anything wrong."

"But..."

"I'm so sorry, Enjolras. This is all my fault." Courfeyrac angles his voice towards him, but he doesn't try to make eye contact. Enjolras can be grateful for this. It's these little things his friends do to accommodate him that show him how much they care.

"It's not your fault, he says. "It's mine."

Combeferre squeezes him. "No, no no. This is in no way your fault. Actually, let's not talk about blame at all. Why don't we focus on getting you comfortable instead?"

"You don't have to."

"We want to. Now, let's see. It's about midnight. Do you think you can go to sleep?"

"Will you stay?"

"Of course. We wouldn't leave you. Do you want both of us?"

"Mhm."

"Okay." Combeferre turns to Courfeyrac. "Can you get some blankets and stuff? We can sleep out here."

"Sure."

Courfeyrac hops off the couch and leaves to collect supplies. As if to compensate for his absence, Combeferre cuddles Enjolras closer, patting his hair and kissing him on the face.

"It's okay," he says. "We're going to keep you with us, all right? You're safe. I know you're still not feeling well, and there's a lot of scary stuff happening, but for right now, just try to relax and sleep. It'll be okay. You'll be okay."

"But I'm going to have nightmares, I know I will."

"Then, we'll just calm you down until you can go back to sleep. They're not real. They can't hurt you."

"But I don't want to disturb you."

"We don't mind. I promise."

Enjolras has run out of arguments. He stays quiet until Courfeyrac comes back and makes up their bed. Then, he tumbles off Combeferre's lap and rolls himself into the blankets.

"I'll try to sleep," he says.

Combeferre settles in next to him, smiling gently. "Good. Are you still wearing your binder?"

"No."

"Okay. Do you need anything else?"

"Mm-mm. Just stay here."

"I'm here."

He wraps his arms around Enjolras and pulls him to his chest. It's almost perfect, and Enjolras is almost completely content, except for one thing. He stirs softly.

"Courfeyrac?"

"I'm here, too."

Courfeyrac slides in on the other side. He's softer, pudgier, and for some reason, much, much warmer. Enjolras sighs happily. Now he's all set.

"Thank you," he says. "For everything. I love you both."

"We love you, too," say Combeferre and Courfeyrac at the same time. They chuckle slightly and snuggle closer.

"That settles it, then," says Courfeyrac. 

Enjolras closes his eyes. He's ready to try and sleep now. Maybe it won't be very good, and maybe he'll wake up ten times, but at least he's loved. And for now, that's all he needs.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: alcohol issues, self harm, panic attacks

Despite what certain songs might say, no one really turns up on a Tuesday. Enjolras knows this well, and part of him is glad, because it means that everyone (himself included) has more of a chance to study. But he's not studying now; he's lying on the floor, totally unable to move. 

He's been feeling awful all day, disgusting and low, and hating himself so much that he could barely even go to class. He had, but it had probably been a mistake, especially because afterwards, Courfeyrac had cornered him and made him come to lunch. Realistically, he knows he didn't eat that much, just some salad and a little rice, but he still feels awful. He's not supposed to eat lunch, it's not allowed, and he hates himself for breaking the Internal Rules. 

So he hates himself, and he feels disgusting, and he has a public policy exam in two days, but he can't even find the strength to open his notebook. If only he hadn't agreed to go with Courfeyrac, or if he hadn't gotten food, or maybe if he'd only pretended to eat like usual, but Courfeyrac had been so concerned, and he hadn't known how to put him off without making him hate him, so he hadn't done any of that, and now look where he is. Maybe it had been subconscious; he really wanted to eat, so he'd found the best excuse he could and gone with it. That must be it. What a wreck of a person he is.

Enjolras closes his eyes, hoping to make the thoughts stop, but of course this only intensifies them. How can he get rid of them? A party would be perfect, all hot-close-reality and too many shots of vodka, but no one's partying right now. Briefly, he entertains the thought of asking someone to buy him something to drink, but then he shakes his head at his own temerity. He doesn't want to bother anyone.

In that case, he'll have to handle things himself. He's a little (scratch that- a lot) scared, but he's also desperate. So after a few harried minutes of deliberation, he finds his shoes, slips his wallet and phone into his jacket pocket, and heads out the door. 

He doesn't bother getting an Uber or anything. That would make things too real. If he just wanders down to Westwood and _happens_ to end up in a bar, well, that'll be what happens, and he can't do anything about it. There's no intentionality here. Or well, there is, but it's easier to deny this way.

Usually, Courfeyrac's favorite bar is pretty crowded, but whether it's because it's a Tuesday, or because everyone knew Enjolras was coming and fled to avoid seeing him and absorbing his vileness, it's pretty empty inside, only a few drunken professors propping up the bar and groaning to each other. The bouncer is obviously bored, so when Enjolras comes up to him, he nods good evening.

"Hi, little lady. Can I help you?"

Enjolras doesn't bother to correct him. Instead, he just holds out his ID like a supplication.

"This is mine."

"I can see that." The bouncer looks at him with narrowed eyes. "How old are you, kid? You look like you're about sixteen. Are you still in high school?"

Enjolras sighs. He's used to this, but right now, he doesn't feel like dealing with questions. "I'm in college."

"Okay." 

The bouncer keeps looking at him. He probably knows the ID is a fake, but he doesn't say anything about it. Enjolras knows he looks like a mess; he's cried longer than he's slept this week, and eaten even less than that. He's so distraught that even his usually-perfect posture is slouchy and bad. Then, too, he's all alone, even at night in a college town like this. Something is obviously going on with him. 

The bouncer gives him one more once-over, then reluctantly hands his ID back. 

"Go on in, then. But be careful."

"I will."

"I mean it. If you need help, come get me. You gotta stay safe."

Enjolras looks at the ground. He appreciates it, he does, but he's so embarrassed. "Thank you," he mumbles. "I'll do that. Um, thanks." 

With this rather inelegant reply, he ducks inside. Time for some good old-fashioned topical anesthesia.

\--

It's easier after that.

Enjolras goes to Target the next day and buys a basketful of the cheapest booze he can find. People stare at him, and he knows he does look incongruous, tiny sweet-faced little pixie working on a huge liquor cabinet, but his fake ID checks out, and there's nothing anyone can do. He tries to smile, and pushes through as best he can, reminding himself that he'll be home soon, and he won't have to bear people _looking_ at him anymore. And it works- in half an hour, he's back in his room, making great progress on a bottle of five-dollar vodka.

Things are a little easier when he drinks. Logically, it doesn't make sense. Alcohol has more calories than many foods, even some bad ones. But it's a drink, and drinks are okay, so Enjolras feels only a little twinge, and that's easy to ignore. He feels like how Grantaire used to be, really, drowning his sorrows in a shot glass (or, more realistically, just a bottle). The irony isn't lost on him, and he knows that if any of his friends knew what he was doing, they would be horrified. But they don't know, and he plans to keep it that way. What harm can it do, anyway? It helps him go about his day, and that doesn't seem like a bad thing at all. 

So, he continues on his way, dosing himself up to functionality whenever he feels too low to do anything else. Sometimes, it's a struggle to even get the bottle open, but when he does, he inevitably feels better, even if it's just a little bit.

He even goes to a couple parties, dancing with strangers, pressing up against sweaty backs and groping hands, cheap vodka and sloppy kisses, sticky floors, dim lights, music he can feel in his belly, hitting him all at once. And above all, _reality_. He feels grounded here, or at least more than usual, like he's a real person, like he's able to come out from behind that fake-opaque curtain between his consciousness and the rest of the world. 

The others don't know. If they did, they'd probably be worried. It's unheard of for people like him to go to parties alone, and he knows it's not a good idea, but he can't bring himself to care. It feels better than nothing, and if it hurts or kills him, so much the good for that. 

Even so, these are strange parties, parties that can lose him. He's fine with these. What he's not fine with, though, is what Courfeyrac inevitably has in store.

\--

"Why?"

"Why not?"

"Why why not?"

"Because you never need an excuse to have a _party_ , Enjolras!" Courfeyrac crosses his arms, pouting down at Enjolras in mock frustration. He's not really mad, and Enjolras knows this, but he feels a little twinge of discomfort in his belly anyway. 

"Sorry," he mumbles, and then, before Courfeyrac can frown and protest and tell him he doesn't have anything to be sorry for, "I don't think you would really want me here, though."

"Why the hell not? You're our friend, aren't you?"

This is supposed to be a rhetorical question, but Enjolras takes way too long to answer it, because he doesn't really know, and now Courfeyrac does frown and sigh sadly.

"Oh, dear. Okay, let me tell you. You _are_ our friend, okay? We love you a lot. And of course we want you with us tonight."

"Everyone does?"

"Obviously. And, think of it this way. At least you'll get some free booze."

Ah. Now he has Enjolras's attention. "You're sure?"

Courfeyrac obviously isn't sure which part of the statement he's replying to, but he grins brightly and slaps Enjolras on the back (a bit too hard- he crumples forward like a paper doll and has to steady himself on the wall). "Great! Then, go get ready. Everyone is supposed to be here by six."

\--

It's a bit generous to say that everyone is there "by six." _By the time Enjolras comes back from class_ would be more accurate. At about 5:15, Enjolras walks into the apartment, and is immediately greeted by an enormous pile of food, stretched across the kitchen counter and the dining table and seemingly anywhere else that there's room. His stomach twists uncomfortably.

"I'll just," he says to Courfeyrac, who's greeted him at the door. Courfeyrac shakes his head exuberantly.

"No, no! Come on!"

"I have to..."

"Here!" Courfeyrac puts a drink into his hand, and he takes it in reflex. Lately, it seems like he's been taking drinks from all kinds of people.

"What is this?"

"Rum and coke!"

Well, okay. Enjolras doesn't love coke- he's not a fan of soda at all, really, but he can live with the rum part. He drains his cup in one long drag. Courfeyrac looks at him cock-eyed, but before he can say anything, someone calls to him and he's off, leaving Enjolras to stand alone and watch his friends at work. Or, that is, at play.

It's amazing, really. They're all so easy about it. Bossuet is handing out slices of pizza, and Joly is pouring drinks, and Feuilly is dishing out huge portions of fried rice and putting all sorts of things on top, and everyone's laughing and talking easily as if it's the happiest, most normal thing. And, Enjolras thinks, for them it probably is. They don't mind eating. Food is just food for them.

But it's not for him, and this is all too much of an ordeal, so he looks for the closest person who's not currently stuffing their face and grabs at them.

"Marius?"

"Oh, yes?" Marius smiles at him hopefully. "Would you like anything? Fruit? You like fruit, right? Should I get you some?"

Enjolras tries to ignore the way his stomach lurches. "That's very kind of you, but no, thank you. I'm actually going to step out for a bit. So, um, if anyone asks, that's where I am."

He doesn't think anyone will ask. They're all too absorbed in their merriment. But he knows better than to go out by himself without telling anyone first, especially at night like this. 

"What? You're leaving?" Marius's freckled forehead wrinkles in distress. "But Enjolras! Everyone is here! Are you not feeling good?"

"I, no-"

"Because if you're anxious, someone can take you somewhere quiet, or even home! You shouldn't go by yourself."

"No, it's okay," Enjolras chokes out. "I'm not going to do anything bad. I just- I'm going to go, okay?"

He hurriedly pats Marius on the shoulder and high-tails it to the door before he can say anything else. Fortunately, no one stops him, probably not having even noticed his flight, and he makes it to the parking lot unimpaired.

Now, though, he doesn't know what to do. Even if he could drive, he wouldn't want to, not in this state. He can barely see straight. It might just be anxiety, though more likely, it's because at this point there's been more alcohol than food in his body for the past couple weeks. Whatever it is, though, it's clear he's not going anywhere far.

Eventually, he decides to head out of the apartments and go downtown. It's only a seven-minute walk on a good day (it'll probably be a bit more now, but that's okay), and he figures it'll be good to get some fresh air. That's probably all he needs to clear his head, right?

Without really meaning to, he ends up at the bar again. The bouncer doesn't even bother asking for his ID this time; he just waves him inside wearily and tells him to be careful. It's gratifying, in a way, although it's also embarrassing to be a fixture. 

He comes over to the bar and sits down in the first available seat. His head is spinning by now, probably from the sheer physical exertion of walking here. That's okay. It's to be expected. Everyone gets tired after walking, even if they're in top physical shape. It doesn't mean anything. 

By now, the bartender knows that he's not here for fun, so she smiles pityingly as she slides him his drink. He doesn't even know what he ordered, something strong, probably, and apparently, neat. Look at that, Combeferre would be proud of him. He takes the glass with a murmured thanks. It's hard to maintain his dignity when everyone knows how quickly he's falling, but God, does he try. 

Not too long after that, he's leaning on the bar, trying desperately to stay upright while the room melts and drips around him and the lights flash and burn. He knows the music's still as loud as it ever was, but he can barely hear it over the ringing sirens in his head, drowning out the rest of the world. He's sure he looks like any other drunken college student, and that's fine- it's better that people don't get suspicious- but he wants to hide, or apologize, or maybe both, somehow. The last thing he wants is to cause a scene. But, the light dims, and the ringing becomes unbearable, and all of a sudden, he feels like a rag doll that's lost half its stuffing. Even if it were possible to stay upright by sheer force of will, he doesn't think he could, because he's too tired to even think anymore. With a faint, soft cry of apology to the world at large, he lets himself go, tumbling off his stool to let the floor take its custody over him. He'll have time to be humiliated later, but for now, he closes his eyes and allows the darkness to sweep him away.

\--

When he wakes again, it's warm. Warmer than it had been at the bar, anyway, though that's not saying much, and the light is softer, too. He's lying on his back, he thinks, probably on someone's couch, and there's a blanket over him. That must be why it's so warm. He dares to pull his eyelids apart.

"Where am I?"

"Oh! He's awake!"

That's Joly's voice, shrill and reedy. Enjolras chases it.

"Joly? Where am I?"

"You're at my house. Don't worry, you're safe. It's okay."

"But..." Speaking is so much effort. Enjolras knows what he wants to say, or at least the idea of it, but putting it into words is much harder. He tries his best anyway. "What happened?"

"You could tell us that."

A new voice, now. This one is lower, richer-toned, more full in its timbre. Combeferre.

"Am I at home?"

"Sort of. You're at Joly's house. Someone called us from the bar, apparently you passed out there. So we took you here. It's okay, you're safe now."

"I'm safe?"

"Yes, you are, sweetheart. It's okay. Do you remember what happened?"

Enjolras tries to think. It's all so weird in his head, sort of chiaroscuro and smudgy like one of Grantaire's charcoal sketches. 

"It was too much," he says.

"What do you mean, too much? Did you get overstimulated?"

"I guess. It was just too much."

"Okay. Have you eaten anything today?"

"No."

"When was the last time you ate anything?"

"I don't know."

He really doesn't. It's almost as hard to think as it is to keep his eyes open. But now Combeferre and Joly are staring at him in horror, so he must have said something wrong. What was it, though? He can't remember.

"Why're you mad?"

"We're not," says Joly, a little too quickly. Enjolras tries to look up.

"'Ferre?"

Immediately, Combeferre is there, smoothing the hair away from his forehead and cooing softly. "It's okay," he says. "We're not mad. It's okay, you're okay."

"Can I sleep now?"

"Not yet. I want you to eat something first. Do you think you can?"

"No. I'm not supposed to eat anything right now!"

"You're not supposed to...?" Joly touches his shoulder, as if making sure that this is really Enjolras speaking. "Come on, since when do you care about what you're supposed to do?"

Enjolras sighs, distressed. It's so hard to explain this. "It's me," he says. "My me says I'm not allowed to do it. It's against the rules."

"Against the _rules_?"

"Are you talking about the rules your brain tells you?" asks Combeferre, much to Enjolras's relief. Trust him to always know what he's trying to say. He nods, as much as he can from his position on the couch.

"Mhm. I'm not allowed to show my emotions unless someone really wants me to, and I'm not allowed to read books in the library unless I sit at a table, but I'm not allowed to go to a table unless I'm the only one there, and..." Here, his voice cuts out, so he stops to swallow weakly. They probably get the idea anyway. "I'm not allowed to eat after 8 PM," he finishes. 

"But you said you haven't eaten at all today. Is that part of your rules, too?"

"Sort of. But also, I just can't."

"Why can't you?"

"I _can't_."

Enjolras feels like crying. Why can't they understand? It's so frustrating. If they would only leave him alone, he would be fine, maybe a little weak and unhealthy, but fine. His system works.

"Don't make me," he says. "Please don't. It'll ruin everything."

"Why will it ruin everything?"

Questions, questions, questions. And answers that the others will think are wrong. Enjolras is feeling way overwhelmed right now, not quite like it had been in the bar, but more frustration and less surfeit. He sniffles. It's annoying to cry, especially in front of his friends (even these two, although who knows who else is kicking around Joly's house- it's practically a hotel, any time of the day or night), and it's embarrassing, too. Maybe he can figure out how to stop himself before it gets too bad. After all, isn't controlling himself what he's best at?

"I want to sleep," he says. It sounds so childish when he says it right out like that. But what else is he supposed to do? It's true.

"No, not yet. Here." Combeferre sits him up, arranging the pillows behind him, so he doesn't have to use his own feeble strength to stay upright. "Come on, just drink a little Gatorade, then, and you can sleep right after that. Can you do that?"

Gatorade is okay. It's a drink, and drinks are okay. Enjolras licks his lips, wondering how they got that dry.

"I'll drink it," he says.

Combeferre doesn't even bother hiding his relief. He holds up a bottle of red Gatorade with a straw in it, which he must have prepared while Enjolras was sleeping. 

"This is your favorite flavor, right?"

Is it? Probably. Enjolras nods.

"Help me drink it."

"Help you? Ah- you want me to hold the bottle?"

"Mhm. And the straw."

"Okay. Here, open your mouth."

Enjolras does, and Combeferre helps him drink. It's hard to take in this much at once, but even worse, he's making glooping sounds when he swallows, and it's so _embarrassing_. Everything is embarrassing. He pulls away from the bottle, turns his face away.

"No more."

"Come on. You need to replenish yourself here."

"No, I can't."

"I'll check his blood pressure," offers Joly. Combeferre makes a sound of assent.

"Good idea."

It reminds Enjolras of the hospital, checking in every day, endless logs and Burns charts, trying to put a label on the swirling illnesses inside him, and failing because nothing quite does it justice, and nothing helps enough. It makes him sick.

"I don't want to check. Can I just sleep?"

"No. I'm sorry, precious, I know it's annoying. But we just want to make sure you're okay." Combeferre mercifully takes the bottle of Gatorade away, though now he's sliding the blood pressure cuff up onto Enjolras's arm, so it doesn't help much. "Try to stay still for me, okay?"

There's nothing Enjolras can do, so he stays quiet and doesn't even flinch at the pinch of the cuff as it tightens on his upper arm. It seems to take an extra long time, but eventually the machine beeps and the pressure loosens.

It's a relief, but Combeferre clicks his tongue, obviously displeased. "80 over 55. That's really low."

It's not as bad as it has been in the past, though. Enjolras stirs.

"I'm okay. It could be worse, you know."

Combeferre doesn't seem to be paying any attention. "I'm worried," he says to Joly. "Do you think we should take him to the ER?"

No. They can't. The ER means waiting, and sitting up, and endless talking, papers, tests, everything that Enjolras can't do right now, even in the event that he could handle the hospital at all.

"Please don't," he whispers. "I can't. I can't go there. Please let me stay here, please. If I sleep, it'll be okay."

"Oh." Combeferre turns his attention back. "It's okay, sweetie. They won't hurt you, you know."

"No, please don't make me, please-"

"I don't think we should move him," says Joly, bless his wonderful heart. "He's so anxious right now, so I don't want to make things worse. Let's just try to take care of him here."

Combeferre clucks his tongue again. "Fine. But if he gets any worse, I'm taking him."

"That should be fine." Joly bends over Enjolras, tilting his face out of the pillow with a soft hand. "Hey, we're not going to take you to the ER right now, okay? But you have to drink this. We want to make sure your blood pressure stabilizes."

"It's stable."

"Aww, baby." Joly sounds like he's trying not to laugh. "No, honey, it's not. Let's try to get you through this whole bottle, okay?"

It's too much. If Enjolras had the strength, he thinks he would be crying. "I can't."

"Then, we'll have to take you to the emergency room."

This is so humiliating. There's no way this could be worse, really. Enjolras knows that his friends are only trying to help him, but this ultimatum makes him feel so helpless, like _hey, Enjolras! Would you rather do this one impossible thing, or this other impossible thing?_ It's the Scylla and Charybdis of the medical world. He crunches his eyes closed, tight. They're prickling in the back, but it's not enough to be a release.

"I don't want to go," he says.

"Well, you don't have to. Just drink."

 _Just drink_ , he says, like it's something doable and easy. Enjolras squeezes his eyes even tighter. 

"Fine."

"That's the spirit." Joly sounds so relieved. Maybe this was the right answer.

Enjolras keeps his eyes closed, and like magic, the straw appears in his mouth. Someone holds his hand while he drinks, and someone else pets his hair, and he's barely even sure where he is or what's happening, but he keeps sucking in and swallowing until the straw makes a slurping sound and the bottle moves away. 

"Good job."

That's Combeferre. He sounds about fifty years older, weary and bent over with care. Enjolras will have to do something for him as soon as he can. He's been selfish, not taking care of his friends as much as he should. 

"I'm sorry," he tries to say. 

"No, no. You don't have to apologize."

"No, but I..."

"Shh. Save your strength." He must be leaning over Enjolras now, because his voice is closer, and now there's a hand stroking Enjolras's face and drawing little circles over his cheekbones. "You can sleep now, love."

"Will you stay?"

He shouldn't ask. It's so selfish, so thoughtless. Everyone has their own things to do; they shouldn't be tied down here with him. He's still so scared and so uncomfortable, and he knows he's going to have awful dreams. But that's no excuse. 

"I'm sorry," he says. "You don't have to."

"I mean, it's my house. I don't exactly have anywhere else to be." Joly pats his cheek. "And you don't have to be sorry. You're not feeling well, so of course you don't want to be alone right now. It's no problem."

"Am I invading your house? I don't want to impose-"

"No, no. I want you here."

"Are you sure?"

"I am. It's not like you're in my way or anything."

Enjolras doesn't have the strength to argue. He reaches for Combeferre's hand and squeezes it weakly.

"'Ferre, you should go home and rest, then."

"Are you sure? I can stay here. I don't want to leave you while you're not feeling well."

"No, it's okay. Joly is here."

"I'll take care of him," Joly promises. "Don't worry, Combeferre. You should get some sleep."

It sounds like Combeferre is trying to stifle a yawn. He's been so overworked lately, both at the hospital, and with volunteering. He doesn't want Enjolras to know this, but it's pretty obvious, even now.

"I might head back, then," he says. "If you're sure you'll be okay."

"I'll be okay. I trust Joly."

"Aww, sugar bee. Aren't you just the cutest." Joly boops him on the nose. "See, it's okay. Enjolbaby trusts me."

His pet names are ridiculous. Enjolras doesn't mind, though. He loves to bask in the affection that his friends offer. 

"I'm going to sleep," he says. 

"Okay. Goodnight, sweetie. I'll see you later."

Combeferre kisses him on the forehead, and presumably gets up to leave. Joly walks him to the door, but Enjolras keeps his eyes closed, knowing he'll understand. Later he'll try to give back some love, but right now, all he can do is sleep.

\--

He wakes up a few hours later to a dark, silent room. It's maybe four in the morning now, so it makes sense that everyone's asleep, but he's still shaking from this most recent nightmare, and everything still feels unreal. His stomach hurts, and he's dizzy, head spinning and chest clenching. He feels like he's about to scream, or faint, or both. Probably, he's edging towards a panic attack, and just as probably, he's dehydrated and hypotensive. There's nothing he can do about it, though, because if he moves, the darkness will rise up and swallow him up. Unbidden, thoughts swirl in his head, not the harmless ones of more normal times, but deeply disturbing ones, ones that leave him clenching his fists and pressing his face into the pillow to keep from crying aloud. 

He hates these times. They've become much more common recently. Not that he's ever really been free from these hours of terror, but in the past few weeks, they've lain on him like the heaviest weight. Rationally, he knows that it will pass, and he'll be himself in the morning, for better or for worse. That seems too far away, though, and besides, the point is that his thoughts are irrational now, so it's not like that helps at all.

There's nothing he can do to calm down, and he's too scared to sleep, but he also can't do anything else. So he has to lie here and wait until something happens to lift him out of his misery. If he only felt more real, or if he knew that someone was nearby, then it might help, but he doesn't know. Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta are probably in the bedroom, and that's too far away to be any comfort. He can't stand this. If something doesn't relieve this pressure soon, he's really going to die.

He reaches down to his belt loop to unhook the safety pin that he keeps there, specifically for situations like this. Often, he can talk himself out of this, but it's been getting harder and harder to do so lately. Anyway, it's okay, isn't it? He needs to do something to help, and his body is just collateral damage even in the best of times. Carefully, as if he's afraid that someone might see him and stop him, he brings the safety pin up to the fragile skin of his inner arm and presses down. It's not enough- safety pins really aren't that sharp, and they don't have much surface area, so he has to work absurdly hard to get even close to good results. But it's not like he could carry a knife around with him or anything. People would definitely get suspicious. 

It takes awhile, but finally the pain starts to clear his head. He clips the safety pin shut and uses his nails instead, clawing at the wounds he's made. He used to hate keeping his nails long, and to some extent, he still does, but it's undeniably useful to have a built-in tool like this. Back when he was in the hospital, this was one of the only recourses he had. It's funny- he's terrified of blood. But when he's doing this, it's calming. It often makes him wonder if he's faking his fear, if he's just pretending to be scared for the attention. Sure, he doesn't think anyone knows about it except for Grantaire and a select few of his doctors, but what does that mean? He could still be making it all up in his head.

No matter what, though, he can focus a little better now, and he doesn't feel like he's in imminent danger. He's still scared, and he feels like the world's about to end, but that's nothing new. Now, he thinks he can go to sleep. He claws down his wrist one more time, reassurance, before shutting his eyes and swimming off into a fitful sea of vague and terrifying dreams.

\--

Joly wakes him up the next morning with a loud shriek.

"Enjolras! What did you _do_?"

Enjolras is still fuzzy-headed from sleep, and he doesn't know what Joly's referring to, so he jolts up in genuine terror.

"What? What's wrong? What happened?"

"You're bleeding!"

Oh. Enjolras holds up his arm, looking at with scientific interest. Sure enough, it's rather gruesome-looking, streaked with a fine layer of freshly-dried blood. It looks way worse than it is, but he could imagine that it would be a bit of a shock.

"Sorry," he says.

Joly looks like he's about to go into hysterics. Enjolras wonders uneasily if this qualifies as "unsanitary."

"I'm going to go?" It's not really a question, though. No point in making someone else panic today. 

Joly flaps his hand at him, but he's not to be dissuaded. He gets off the couch (slowly, so he doesn't fall over) slips on his shoes, and wobbles out the door before anyone can stop him. It's bad enough that he was invading Joly's house like this; he doesn't want to upset him, too.

Slow and weak as he is, though, he doesn't even make it down the hallway before Musichetta comes barreling towards him and catches him around the waist. She lifts him up like a doll, slings him over her shoulder, and brings him back into the apartment, all without saying a word. He wriggles around halfheartedly, but he knows there's no point. Musichetta is ridiculously strong.

Bossuet and Joly greet them at the door. They're both wearing similarly disapproving expressions, though on Joly, it's much less effective. He looks like a sad bunny. 

"Enjolras," he says. "Why did you run away? I thought we talked about this."

Oops. Enjolras taps Musichetta on the shoulder until she puts him down.

"I'm sorry. I thought the blood was unsanitary."

"Sweetheart, I'm a doctor. I've gotten used to blood by now."

"Okay, well, that makes sense. But I thought..."

Bossuet peers at him. "What?"

"I...didn't want to be a bother?"

"You're not. You're never a bother. Here." Bossuet reaches for him and tugs him inside. "Why don't you go get ready in the bathroom? And then sit down and try to relax. You're not even really awake yet."

It's true. Enjolras is only now starting to become conscious of everything that's going on. Of course, that could be an illness thing, too, but he's prefer the simpler explanation. He takes off his shoes and pads into the bathroom to clean himself off. 

He brushes his teeth with the toothbrush that he keeps in the cabinet (Joly insists that everyone keep spare toothbrushes in everyone else's houses, in case of impromptu sleepovers), washes his face, and tries to tame the wild mess in his hair. Bossuet is bald, Musichetta uses a hair pick, and Joly doesn't like anyone using his hairbrush, so Enjolras has to make do with his fingers. But fortunately, his hair is fine and silky enough that it mostly does what he wants. He also washes the dried blood off his arm, and puts bandaids on the deeper lesions, though this is mostly for form's sake, because none of the cuts are that deep. He still doesn't really feel like a respectable human being, but at least it's better than it was before.

By the time he gets out of the bathroom, Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet have arranged themselves in a semicircle around the dining table. Grantaire is there, too. It looks like a council of war. Enjolras waves at them all somewhat awkwardly.

"Hey, guys. Uh- good morning."

"Good morning." Joly gestures at him solemnly. "Won't you come and sit down?"

Enjolras approaches the table, feeling like his feet are too big for his body. How does one walk again? He sinks into the chair next to Grantaire and scoots up close to him. That's some comfort, at least. Grantaire smiles at him and squeezes his hand.

"Morning, babe."

Enjolras loves him, he really does. He pecks him lightly on the cheek.

"Morning."

"We have to talk to you," says Musichetta, cutting the domesticity short. She's a morning person, and it shows. Probably, she's already got a complete list in her head, detailing everything she wants to talk about, and how. And after this, she'll probably drink an herbal smoothie and go off to do mountain yoga. Enjolras wishes he had even half of her energy before 10:00.

"I can talk," he says, cringing internally because he feels that he's just demonstrating the opposite. But Musichetta nods as if she was expecting this.

"Okay. So, this is a bit of a doozy. Would you like some breakfast?"

Enjolras swallows hard. "No, thank you. But, wait. Shouldn't you guys be at work? I don't want to keep you."

"My kids are taking a class trip, so I don't have to go in until fourth period," says Bossuet. "And Joly's shift isn't until 11."

Grantaire raises the hand that's not entwined with Enjolras's. "I make my own hours."

"I know." Enjolras bumps him lightly, only half-teasing as he asks, "Shouldn't you be working on a code or something, though? Or a painting? Or-"

"Hush, conscience of mine."

"I'm going in late today," says Musichetta, in a tone that leaves no room for argument. She folds her arms on the table and gives Enjolras a level glance, as if to say _what do you think of that_. Enjolras isn't about to argue with her, since she can do whatever she wants with her time, so he just nods wordlessly. 

"Okay, then," says Bossuet. "Let's talk."

Enjolras looks between them, apprehensive, yet somehow (isn't the duality of emotion amazing?) a little amused. He nods at Musichetta, since she seems to be the one in charge here.

"What are we talking about?"

"Your eating disorder."

Ah, okay. Enjolras isn't amused anymore. He sighs, only a little over-dramatically.

"Do we really have to talk about that?"

"Yes. You passed out at a bar, Enjolras. I think that's an issue, don't you?"

Honestly, no, but Enjolras doesn't think that's the right answer. He shrugs.

"You tell me."

"It's an issue," Bossuet says at an encouraging look from Musichetta. "What would have happened if you hadn't had your phone on you? Or if there had been creepy people there? Or if none of us knew where you were? You got lucky, that's what. But it's not likely to happen again."

Enjolras makes a face, wrinkling his nose and sticking out his lower lip. He's been told he looks like a child when he does this, but he doesn't believe it. He thinks he looks fearsome.

"You're gloomy today, aren't you."

"It's nothing to be flippant about." Joly reaches across the table and taps him lightly on the nose, affectionate, but warning. "Boss is right. You never know what could happen."

"I don't care what happens to me," says Enjolras, and regrets it as soon as he does. Four pairs of eyes widen and stare at him in horror.

"What do you mean?"

How awkward. Now he has to talk about it. He really wishes he could keep his mouth shut sometimes. 

"Don't worry about it," he says. 

"No, none of that. We're worried, and there's nothing you can do about it." Joly points at him across the table, suddenly fierce. "Now, no trying to wiggle your way out of this. We're going to sit here until it's all hashed out."

Enjolras hisses out a laugh. "I hope you have a couple months, then."

"We're not trying to dismiss the severity of your situation," Grantaire says. "I know you're going through a lot, and there's other issues besides your eating disorder. Although I know that even that by itself is complex enough. But really, we just want to know what's going on."

"It's nothing. I'm fine."

"Really?"

Enjolras feels hot and itchy all over. He pulls his hand free from Grantaire's and starts tapping on the table like he does when he's tired or stressed. Why is everyone looking at him? He wants to tell them to tone it down, but he feels like they would only take this as evidence of Something Going On. Everyone tends to do that, even when they have no reason to. Time to turn the tables, then.

"Why do you think something's wrong?" he asks. "Maybe you're projecting."

Musichetta snorts. "Like hell we are. Have you seen yourself lately?"

"What? Why? Is there something wrong with me?"

"Yeah. You could lose a fight to a first-grader. When's the last time you ate a proper meal?"

"Oh, well. You know, the word _proper_ has so many sociocultural implications, and it's hard to really define anything based on terms that are so inherently loaded and subjective..."

"Shut your tiny mouth. You know what I mean. When's the last time you ate a normal amount of food- enough to fill you up- and didn't do any destructive behaviors afterwards?"

It's been quite some time. Enjolras doesn't want to admit this, because his friends will just take it as proof that he has a problem, even though he really doesn't, and there've been extenuating circumstances that they can't see just through a simple verbal questionnaire. 

"I don't really know," he says. "But the more important thing is that countless people are suffering from real problems in this world, and we're not getting any closer to helping them just by talking about me."

"Stop evading! Are you saying that you don't remember the last time you ate a full, healthy meal?"

"Is that what you got out of it? Then, fine. I guess."

"Shit, man." Musichetta looks around at the others, gesturing like _can-you-believe-this?_ "I didn't know it was that bad. Okay, so what _have_ you been eating?"

"Nothing, I..."

" _Nothing_?"

"No-"

"Okay, enough." Now it's Joly's turn. He folds his hands and suddenly it's like he's donned a white coat; he's Enjolras's doctor now, not his friend. Strangely enough, it puts Enjolras more at ease. Affectionate worry is tricky, but he can deal with professional interest. Joly nods at him to continue, and he does.

"I've been having trouble with food intake," he says. "Fluids aren't so good either. I've been taking my medication, though. And vitamins."

"That's good. That's a start." Joly takes out his phone and starts typing away in the notes app. "So, what would you say your daily calorie intake is? On average."

Enjolras knows it's a trick question- if he answers, it'll show that he's been counting calories again, and even worse, they'll all know that he's been restricting. He doesn't want to answer. But he can't shrug and refuse, because then they'll get someone to follow him everywhere, or get Grantaire to write a code that monitors his movements, or contact the FBI to use some kind of satellite food GPS app, and he's logical enough to know that this would be worse. So he sighs, internally bidding farewell to any peace he might have known up until now.

"About 600," he says.

He can see Grantaire stiffen out of the corner of his eye, but fortunately, he doesn't try to interrupt. He's such a great boyfriend. Bossuet, on the other hand, has no such compunction.

"What? 600? But that's not even possible, you-"

Enjolras smirks at him. How little he knows. "Believe me. It's possible."

Bossuet looks outraged. Enjolras knows it's a shock; most people are frankly offended when they hear that someone doesn't like food. But it's still upsetting. He doesn't want to have to deal with this. Fortunately, Joly speaks again.

"Okay. So you're doing about 600. And how is it distributed?"

While he was in the hospital, Enjolras spent way too much time making diet plans and meal trackers. He can recite the optimal exchange pattern in his sleep, and write the nutrition formula for a balanced meal backwards and forwards. He knows the value of a bran muffin (two bread exchanges and a half-exchange of fiber), the price of a cup of coffee (two of those seemingly-bottomless styrofoam cups of water), and his personal weekly limit for exercise (15 minutes of light walking each day). But now, it seems like too much, too embarrassing to talk about. He shouldn't be ashamed, he knows, but he can't bring himself to discuss any details.

"I, I can't say," he stutters.

Joly doesn't look impressed, but he backs off. "Fine. Then, one more question. When was the last time you ate anything at all?"

"Yesterday."

It's partially true. He had some of Cosette's frappuccino, and he figures this is enough like ice cream to count as food. Some of his hesitation to bend the truth must show on his face, though, because Joly purses his lips and shakes his head.

"Uh-uh. When's the last time you ate _food_?"

He's too sharp for his own good. Enjolras knows to admit defeat when he sees it. 

"Two days ago," he mutters.

"What was it?"

This is so embarrassing. Enjolras doesn't want to disclose his diet to everyone. Food is bad enough just to eat; sharing facts about it is unthinkable. He looks down.

"I don't want to talk about this."

"Too bad."

Enjolras makes an involuntary noise of distress. Grantaire puts an arm around him, soothing and strong. 

"It's okay, kitten. You know we're not going to judge you or anything."

"Yeah, but..."

"I know, I know. It's embarrassing. But it's okay. I promise, we won't get upset."

"But it's not okay, I'm not supposed to..."

"For fuck's sake. Would you stop talking about what you're 'supposed' to do?" Musichetta glares at him, exasperated. "Your rules are bullshit, okay? Break them. Break them all."

Enjolras hides his face in Grantaire's shoulder. The longer he drags it out, the more embarrassing it will be. He never wanted it to be a big deal in the first place, but now here it is. He has to stop this before it gets any worse.

"I had pasta," he says. "And a piece of bread. It was a lot."

"That's not a lot," objects Bossuet. "Besides, even if it was, it's not enough to sustain you for _two days_."

"Why?"

Bossuet raps on the table. "Because you need nutrition. Your body can't run on nothing, you know. You- ugh. Joly?"

"Yes." Joly looks like he wants to adjust his glasses. He doesn't wear any (a fact which is a daily source of consternation for him), but he puts his hand up to his temple anyway. "Okay, Enjolras. So, you know all the nutrition facts. I don't have to tell you anything about that. And you know that you need to eat if you want to stay alive."

 _Well, there's your problem_ , Enjolras thinks. It's not until Joly gasps that he realizes he's said it aloud. "Oh, sorry. That was kinda dark. Well, don't worry about it."

"Stop telling us not to worry about it. We can't help it." Joly looks really upset. Enjolras feels awful for disturbing him, poor thing. He doesn't deserve this stress.

"Listen," he says. "I'm not going to do anything. So you can relax."

"Well, what's your definition of 'anything'? You scratched yourself bloody last night. Does that not count?"

"No, that's just stress relief."

"You can't hurt yourself and call it stress relief!"

"Yeah? Well, what am I supposed to do, then? Isn't it better than-"

Enjolras cuts himself off. He can't finish this sentence, not with his friends looking at him like that. "Look," he says. "I'll go talk to a therapist. Does that make you happy?"

It's not such a great concession as it seems. His recovery plan stipulates that he needs to maintain a regular schedule at the therapist's office, along with other measures which he's similarly neglected. He hasn't had the strength or energy to deal with anything but the immediate present. But he knows that it'll be hard for him to renew his medication if he doesn't go along with his plan, and he's running low, so he needs to get to the psychiatrist soon. If he goes to see a therapist, even just for a few sessions, it will have the dual benefit of setting him back on track and appeasing his friends. It's foolproof.

Joly seems to think so too. He smiles, bright and sunny. "Really? You'll go?"

"Yeah."

"That's wonderful!" 

Joly comes around the table and hugs him. It's nice, but it makes Enjolras feel guilty about not being totally upfront. If Joly knew about his medical non-adherence, he'd probably be much less delighted. Grantaire, who doesn't know for sure either, but who probably suspects, gives him a look that plainly says _we'll talk later_ , but he doesn't say anything. It's okay. Enjolras will tell him everything (it's not like it's a secret, after all), and he'll understand. He knows what it's like to struggle, too.

Now satisfied, Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta go off to work, leaving Grantaire with free range of the apartment, since he likes to write code there sometimes. He says the wifi is better. Enjolras doesn't know how important this is for his coding, but he knows how nice it is to get out of the house, so he doesn't question it. 

He wants to stay and relax for a little bit. It's nice to curl up next to Grantaire while he writes his programs and watch him, or study, or read articles, or anything, really. Just being able to coexist peacefully in the same place- that's a rare treasure. But he can't stay. He has class. So he borrows some of Joly's clothes (they're the only ones remotely small enough to fit, but they still hang off him), grabs a random pen and paper he finds on the table, and leaves, after kissing Grantaire goodbye and promising to stop by after class, of course. He has a lot to do today, but he's going to do his best to get through it all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: suicidal ideation, creepy parents

_They're coming_.

Enjolras stops and steadies himself against the wall of the therapist's building (out of sight, of course, so no one will see him and think he's about to faint) and tries to catch his breath. 

 _They're coming_.

His heart won't slow down- it's beating quicker than one of the mice in Combeferre's lab. He feels like one of those mice, really, running in endless mazes, trying to solve problems that are way too big for his comprehension, circles and circles and implacable higher powers lifting him up and throwing him around without a care. And there's no way out of this, no way to get free of this cruel experiment, because he's trapped, and they're coming.

His parents are coming.

At first, he didn't want to believe it when his therapist had said so. He hadn't thought the man would stoop to such depths, though in retrospect, he's not surprised, because he seems to be a truly amoral person. He'd taken matters into his own hands, broken the patient confidentiality code, told Enjolras's parents everything. He'd been in contact with them for weeks. And Enjolras hadn't suspected a thing. Now, now that they have some time to spare for their poor, degenerate child, they're coming to visit. They haven't said exactly when, but it's bad enough as it is. He doesn't want to live through this.

Although... Maybe he doesn't have to~? A thought sails into the borders of his mind, only to be dismissed with a shake of his head and a slap on the arm. He can't do that. His friends would have to take a break from work to go to his funeral. And besides, then he wouldn't be able to finish his term papers.

An acrid laugh bubbles up and dies in his throat. Is that really all he's living for? He looks across the street, noting the busy intersection, and thinks how easy it would be to throw himself into the path of one of the buses that go careening around corners with no warning. No one would know that it wasn't an accident. No one would care. 

No. He can't do it this way. He can't cause a scene. The poor bus driver who hit him, and the people inside- they would never recover. He can't make them live with that guilt. 

But, there are other ways. Easy ways. He's thought about this a lot, and he has a couple plans ready to go. It wouldn't be hard, and afterwards, everyone would be better off. His friends might be upset, but they would get over it, because it's not like they really need him (but does anyone really _need_ anyone else, and should that be the bellwether of existence?), and his parents would certainly be happy to have him gone. 

His phone buzzes, startling him out of his thoughts. It's a text from Combeferre, asking him if he wants to go to a special symposium on the place of existentialist philosophy in a modern world. It sounds interesting, but it's tomorrow, so that's another day that Enjolras has to live through. Still, he is curious, and he thinks it would be nice to go with Combeferre since they haven't been to an academic event together for awhile, so he sighs and texts back that he'll go.

Now, he has to do something with himself, though. He doesn't want to go home, because Combeferre and Courfeyrac will definitely notice that something's wrong, and he doesn't want to talk about it. But he's under no illusions that he'll probably end up doing something self-destructive by the end of the night unless he does something to stop himself, and then he’ll just have to deal with the aftermath tomorrow.

So, he looks around him, trying to see if there's anywhere he can go to keep himself occupied for a little while. He's in the commercial district, but there's not so much option in terms of places to spend time. People are giving him looks as they pass by him now, and he knows he looks pathetic, a dejected little waif on the street corner clutching a bag that's a bit too big and, yes, crying softly to himself. He has to get out of here before someone stops. But there's nowhere to go. 

And then, he sees the sticker for a gym on the back windshield of a passing car, and remembers. The boxing gym is nearby. It's probably only about a five minute walk from here, and it should definitely be open. People know him there because he goes to visit Grantaire and Bahorel sometimes, so they'll probably let him in, and he can sit and watch everyone work out for awhile and see if that helps him calm down. 

It doesn't take him that long to get there. His sense of direction isn't the best, especially now that he's so rattled, but he uses the map app on his phone, and after only one wrong turn, he's there. He pushes through the doors and goes inside, and is about to find a place to sit down, when a huge, beefy hand descends on his shoulder.

"Look who it is! Little angel!"

Enjolras looks up. He knows this voice. 

"Hi, Rosa."

"What're you doing here? Someone let you out of the dollhouse?" Rosa brays a loud, good-natured laugh. "It's good to see you, little thing! You haven't been here in awhile."

Enjolras smiles, just an edge. He doesn't feel any better than he had before, but Rosa's so jolly, and he can't help but respond. 

"I'm glad to see you, too," he says. "I've missed coming here."

Rosa roars in delight and grabs his hand. "What a cutie! Come here, duckling. I have to show the others."

She tows him off to the edge of the mat, where there about five people milling around and laughing at each other. They all stop what they're doing when Rosa hollers at them, and come to congregate around her. Enjolras is hiding behind her back, so they don't see him at first, but when they do, they all let out similarly loud shouts of glee.

"It's the baby!"

"We've missed seeing your pretty face around here recently!"

"Where've you been hiding, sugar?"

Enjolras waves at them bashfully. He likes them all, and their loudness doesn't scare him (surprisingly), and even though they're all about three times as big as he is, he knows they won't do him any harm. They're all very sweet, really. 

"You guys are so nice," he says.

"And you're precious!" One of the men, a tall, lanky fellow named Babet, comes over and ruffles his hair. He smells like peanut butter for some reason, but this isn't any cause to fear him. 

Rosa waves over Enjolras's head and bellows out in her trademark bass, "Bahorel! Get over here! Look who came to visit!"

So Bahorel is here? That's better than Enjolras could have hoped. He won't ask any awkward questions, and will hopefully be able to distract him a little from the mess in his head. He smiles as the bigger man comes over.

"Hi, B'rel."

"Hey, little guy." Bahorel claps him on the shoulder, fortunately not hard enough to knock him over this time. He's learning. "What are you doing here?"

"I just came to visit. I hope that's okay."

Bahorel must notice that something's wrong, because he's much sharper than people give him credit for. But he doesn't say anything about it, just squeezes Enjolras's shoulder lightly.

"Of course! I'm about to head out, though. Did you wanna get a ride with me?"

This is perfect. Bahorel is great company, cheerful and expansive as he is, and even if he's a bit loud, Enjolras won't have to worry about imposing, because he'll say everything that's on his mind, very clearly. 

"I'd like that," he says.

"Great!" Bahorel grins at him so broadly his whole face changes shape. He swings his gym bag over his shoulder. "You ready, then?"

Enjolras nods, so they say goodbye to everyone (it takes about five minutes, because the others are loath to see them go, and are loquacious and exuberant besides) and head out to the parking lot where Bahorel's old 1963 Ford Mustang is waiting. He's restored it from scratch, and he's very proud of it. 

"Get in," he says. "Time to ride in style."

Enjolras climbs in and straps his seatbelt. The seat's really wide. It makes him feel tiny.

"Thank you," he says.

Bahorel grins at him. "No problem. So, anywhere you want to go?"

"No, not really. Where were you going?"

"Home. Unless you feel like partying?"

Enjolras shakes his head precipitately. "No, that's okay. But... Would it be all right if I went to your house with you?"

"Of course! You don't even need to ask!"

Enjolras really does, but he doesn't argue. In fact, he stays quiet the whole way back, while Bahorel chatters about his day, and some story that Feuilly told him, and how excited he is to learn Brazilian jiu jitsu. Bahorel can really spin out a conversation if he wants to.

When they get inside, Enjolras slips off his shoes and goes to curl up on the couch. He really doesn't feel well, and he would be perfectly fine with not moving another inch for the next few hours. Bahorel pauses in the middle of a sentence and looks at him.

"Hey, you okay?"

 _No_. "Yes. I'm just tired."

"Aww, okay. Well, do you want something to eat? I'm going to make like fifteen eggs for myself right now."

Usually, Enjolras would feel gross just hearing this, but he's so deep in his head that he doesn't even care. If he's going to die soon, eating a little food won't matter. Besides, he hasn't eaten anything for awhile, so it's okay. He nods.

"Can I have some toast?"

"You got it."

Bahorel starts moving around the kitchen, humming to himself. He's like a friendly hurricane. Enjolras puts his head against the couch and watches him, half admiring him, and half wishing that he had that much energy. 

Before too long, Bahorel comes back over to the couch, holding a mug and a plate of toast and jam. He sets it down on the coffee table with a flourish.

"Voila! Cracked wheat artisan bread, browned under a low flame and garnished with a naturally sweetened strawberry preserve. And on the side, a heated milk tisane, flavored with vanilla and natural spices. A subdued, yet elegant presentation."

Clearly, Bahorel has spent way too much time watching Food Network. But Enjolras is touched that he's gone to all this trouble, even remembering how much he likes vanilla milk and strawberry jelly on his toast. He scoots forward to reach the table.

"Thank you so much. I really appreciate it."

Bahorel ruffles his hair. "No problem. Eat up, kiddo."

It's easier said than done, but Enjolras does his best. Bahorel is so good at cooking that even these simple dishes have their own special charm, and although he can't feel it, he knows he's hungry. So he gets through most of the toast, and the whole mug of milk before taking his dishes over to the kitchen, where Bahorel is just finishing up his giant plate of eggs. 

"Thank you," he says again.

"Aww! Hey, it's no problem! Anything for you, ya know?"

Enjolras ducks his head, suddenly shy. He loves how affectionate his friends are, but it's still hard for him to know what to do. So he goes to the sink and washes his dishes, because he might have invited himself over, but he can at least clean up. When Bahorel finishes his plate, he takes it and washes that, too, despite Bahorel's protestations. 

"It's the least I can do," he says.

"That's not true. I'm just glad to have you over."

"Why?" 

Oh, no no. That wasn't what he meant to say. He blushes and turns around to dry his hands. 

"Sorry, no, I didn't mean that."

"Hey, don't be sorry. It's all chill, you know?"

It's the opposite of chill, whatever that is. Enjolras goes back over to the couch. He feels minutely better now, but he still doesn't have the energy to do anything. He hopes Bahorel won't kick him out anytime soon.

"Can I stay here?" he asks.

"Of course!" Bahorel comes and sits down beside him. The couch cushions shift under his weight. "I'm going to be kinda boring, though. I want to finish this crocheted throw, y'see, and I'm just gonna chill and watch Say Yes to the Dress. Unless you wanna go drinking?"

"No, that's okay." In all honesty, this sounds like a perfect evening. Enjolras turns so he can watch what Bahorel is doing. "I can watch?"

" _Yeah_ , you can, cutie. But tell me if you need anything else, yeah?"

"'Kay."

Satisfied, Bahorel pulls out his crochet project, turns on the TV, and starts to work. He's rather skilled. Enjolras can't help but be fascinated by the way the fabric forms under his hands. He watches for awhile, trying to calm himself, and it's almost working, but there's something missing. After a few minutes of fighting with himself, he comes closer.

"Hey, Bahorel? I don't want to be weird. But, um, can I ask?"

"Weird is great. Ask me anything!"

"Can I... Can I sit on you?" Bahorel looks over, and Enjolras can't immediately read his expression, so he assumes it's bad. "I'm sorry," he says quickly. "It's weird. Don't worry. Just ignore me."

"I ain't ignoring you!" Bahorel sets aside his crocheting and holds out his arms. "C'mon, honey. Climb on up here."

Enjolras does. He hates to be a burden, but he feels on the edge of dissociating, and it usually helps him to cuddle with someone. That way, he feels more real, more present. And big, blocky Bahorel is the very epitome of present, so he makes a great ground. He doesn't seem to mind, either, given his reaction. Still,

"I'll move anytime, if it's inconvenient," Enjolras tells him.

"Nah. You're a tiny ball of fluff. Just make yourself cozy."

Enjolras mumbles in grateful assent. He curls up on Bahorel's lap and tucks his head under his chin. This is how he likes to sit on his other friends, since it feels safe, and allows him to hear their heartbeat, but he's never cuddled up with Bahorel like this before. At most, he's just perched on his knee for a little while. 

"Are you sure this is okay?" he asks.

"Totally." There's a pause, and Bahorel hesitantly brings his hand up to stroke Enjolras's hair. Enjolras purrs. 

"You can still kick me off, though," he says. "Anytime. Just... warn me."

"I won't," Bahorel assures him. Then, "You know, I always thought you were scared of me."

This is not unfounded. Enjolras has a tendency to fear anyone who's so much bigger than he is, especially if they're loud, too. And Bahorel has scared him in the past. But he's gotten over this now.

"I'm not," he says. "I mean, if I were, I wouldn't be sitting on you."

"Yeah. But I mean... Do you remember when we were all hanging out at your place? And you ran off, and I yelled at you because I thought you made Courfeyrac cry?"

Enjolras shudders. That had been a terrible evening. "I remember."

"Well, I never really apologized for that. And I feel like I should have."

"It's okay. It's understandable. I mean, I have made people cry before."

"Yeah, but never your friends. I mean, except for when we can't help it because we feel so bad for you."

"So? It's okay. Don't feel bad."

"I can't help it. I'm sorry for that, y'know? If I'd known..."

"That's my fault, though," Enjolras says. "I didn't tell any of you guys about why I kept running away, so it's natural that you would assume the worst."

"That's not your fault! We should've been more nicer, so you wouldn't be scared to tell us stuff."

"Mm." 

Enjolras is too tired to debate. Whether it's the hot milk, or maybe just the friendliness of the atmosphere, he's feeling very sleepy. He lets his eyelids droop closed. It would be weird to sleep here, so he won't, but surely it wouldn't hurt to rest for just a little while...

The next thing he knows, he's dragging himself out of a dark, warm dreamscape, fuzzy-headed and somnolent. He doesn't quite know where he is yet, or what's going on around him, but he hears voices, so he hones in on the sound to try and pick up the pieces of consciousness.

"...I didn't want to say anything, because I didn't want to spook him. But you think I should?"

"Yeah. He's definitely been acting weird. I feel like now's the time to speak up."

"What if he just closes off again, though?" That's Courfeyrac's voice. He sounds horribly upset, too. Enjolras tries to focus.

"Would he? I feel like if we're tactful about it, he wouldn't push us away."

Whom are they talking about? One of their friends, probably, someone they know very well. Enjolras wants to sit up and join in, because he loves his friends and he wants to help whoever it is, but he's still so groggy, and it's all he can do to pay attention.

Courfeyrac makes that weird whistling sound that he does when he's sad. "You guys," he says. "I don't think you're taking this seriously enough. He told me and Combeferre that he tried to kill himself in his freshman year. We knew him then. And we never heard a thing about it."

Enjolras feels a surge of guilt like a punch in the gut. They're talking about him. He struggles to wake himself up, sit up and apologize for worrying everyone, but he only succeeds in wriggling around and whimpering like a lost kitten. Immediately, there's a gentle hand on his hair, and a cooed "hush, hush, it's okay, little one, it's okay." He can't help settling down again. Even if he's upset, he's still so sleepy, and this measure of comfort is so nice.

"Do you think it's possible he might try again?" asks Joly. Courfeyrac groans.

"I don't know."

Enjolras doesn't know either. He hates to worry his friends, but he doesn't want to die on a broken promise. It's probable that he won't do anything, and everything will be fine. But he doesn't know for sure.

"What should we do, then?" Joly asks. "We can't just let this go, can we? It's gone too far already."

"Yeah. But I don't want to scare him. If we told him he had to go back to the hospital..."

Enjolras pushes himself up, trying to shake the sleep from his eyes. He has to interfere. He can't let this happen, he can't.

"No," he says, voice blurred and much weaker than he would like. Courfeyrac comes up to sit next to him, lips pouted in concern.

"Oh no, did we wake you?"

"No, but..."

"It's okay, we won't make you go to the hospital," says Grantaire. Enjolras hadn't known he was here. He tries to turn towards him.

"Promise? You'll keep me safe?"

"Poor baby. He's still half-asleep." Courfeyrac reaches out to smooth his hair behind his ears, kind and warm in a way that only he can be. "Go back to sleep, honey. We won't take you anywhere. You can stay right here with us."

That's some comfort, at least. Enjolras stretches out a shaking hand. "'Taire?"

"Right here." There's a flurry of movement, and suddenly Enjolras is enveloped in Grantaire's arms, surrounded by his familiar warmth. He nuzzles against him, feeling a little better already.

"Don't let me go," he mumbles.

"I won't. I'm here, darling, I'm here."

"He's so out of it," remarks Joly. "Is he usually like this when he wakes up, Courfeyrac?"

"I mean, sort of. But this _is_ particularly bad, even for him."

"That's probably because I put NyQuil in his milk," says Bahorel. The others murmur in surprise and outrage.

"What?"

"I mean, have you seen him? Gucci bags under his eyes and negative color in his face. I don't think he's slept in a week. Poor thing, I wanted him to get some rest."

This is actually fairly thoughtful. Usually, Enjolras would be indignant at being drugged, but this all seems to be for the greater good, and besides, it's true. He's exhausted. Any little bit helps.

"I don't mind," he tries to say.

"Really? You don't mind?"

Enjolras wants to tell them what he's thinking, how it's all an effort for the best, and how the ends justify the means, and how he could never be upset at his friends for trying to help him. But all that comes out is a sleepy, "I'm tired."

Grantaire pulls him closer and kisses him on the forehead. "Aww, sweetheart, I know. Go to sleep, angel. I'll be right here with you, and I'll keep you safe."

He's so sweet. For the first time in awhile, Enjolras feels truly protected, like he can rest without fear. 

"I love you," he mumbles.

"I love you, too, baby. You're so precious, and I love you so much." Grantaire strokes his hair and kisses him and holds him so tightly that he knows nothing will harm him because his boyfriend's so gentle and loving and he'll fight all the darkness away, and maybe nothing's okay in this world, but love is real, and it's here. 

He doesn't hear much conversation after that. The others continue talking, but it's all sort of a white-noise blur on the outside of his dreams. Soon enough, he's asleep again, and it's all faded away to a beautiful, velvety, dreamless black.

\--

Enjolras isn't sure how he gets through the next few days. He goes to school, or at least he thinks he does, because he comes home with pages full of scribbled notes (and sometimes a couple phone numbers), and he's pretty sure he goes about his daily business, but none of it feels real. It's as if he's floating in a sort of dream-like haze at all times, not pastel and sugary like good times, but dark, and cold. Nightmarish, more like. The others probably notice that something's going strange for him, but he can't do anything about it, so for the most part, he stays in his room and thinks.

Sometimes, it's hard to think, like when he's trying to conceptualize a more difficult process, or when someone's talking to him. But sometimes, it's way too easy. Like, right now. The thoughts won't seem to _stop_ , swirling around his head like swarms of locusts. It's too much, and he feels like he's about to shake apart, and he can barely even feel his body, but he knows it's just lying there placidly on his bed, somehow managing to contain the multitudes of energy buzzing through him. It's weird to think about. Does he really exist? How can he? Maybe all of this is just made up. 

"Dissociation," Combeferre says, and Enjolras knows he's technically right, but it seems so extreme to say it like that. It doesn't seem as if he should be allowed to claim such a term for himself, not when there's anything _really_ wrong with him. He's just being selfish, focusing on problems for himself when there's so many other things to worry about. He doesn't even matter, but here he is trying to tell everyone about his symptoms. 

Well. Granted. He's not actually _telling_ anyone, and he tries to deflect them every time they ask. But it's the principle of the thing. He must be faking, or at least exaggerating. That's all there is to it.

He doesn't drink as much alcohol anymore. It helps when he does, it's true, but often, it's just so much effort to go and get the bottle and open it up and drink. It means he has to get off his bed and move, and as ridiculous as it is, that's almost more than he can do.

So, he lies still, staring up at the ceiling. He doesn't study or do the readings for class (but then again, when has he ever needed to?) and he doesn't do any of his hair or skin-care routines because even just showering is tiring, and he _especially_ doesn't eat. Occasionally, Combeferre or Courfeyrac will make dinner, and leave a little extra out for him, and sometimes, he'll creep into the kitchen in the dead of night and eat it. But more often, he'll stick with fruit cups and cereal bars and innumerable cups of coffee, because those at least aren't completely against the rules.

And, although he doesn't know how, the days pass. It's an eternity and somehow not long enough, but finally he gets the call (not text- his parents refuse to accept his fear of phone calls as legitimate) to prepare, because they're coming.

His parents are coming tomorrow.

\--

Sometimes, Enjolras feels bad for avoiding his parents. They're his _parents_ , after all, and he should be dutiful enough to at least visit with them occasionally. Which he does, but he always tries to cut it as short as he can. And shouldn't he be happier to see them when they go out of their way to drop into his life?

Sometimes, Enjolras feels bad for avoiding his parents, but now is not one of those times. 

His mom and dad are in his apartment, sitting on either side of him on the couch. They're uncomfortably close, and it's too much contact between them, but he doesn't dare say a word in protest, or worse, try to move. They would be furious. His dad has one hand on his leg, and it's too close to the inside of his thigh, and his mom is resting her hand predatorily on his shoulder, and both of them are too close, much too close, but there's no way to make them leave. Enjolras is just a toy to them.

"So, how've you been feeling these days?" asks his mom, falsely concerned. "Have you gotten over believing that you're sick?"

"I really was sick," Enjolras protests, but it's weak, because he's starting to doubt it. 

"Nonsense." His mom raps him on the shoulder in reprimand. "We're your parents. We have more experience than you. And certainly, we know better than those idiots at the hospital."

This has been their line all along. It's why they refused to let Enjolras go to the hospital until his condition became too serious to ignore, and why they pulled him out against medical advice once he'd shown the minimal signs of recovery. Legally, they have no hold on him, but they have other ways of making him cave to their will.

There's the sound of a key in the lock, and Enjolras's heart pounds in relief. It's either Courfeyrac or Combeferre, or hopefully, both. He's not depending on them or anything, and he certainly doesn't expect them to save him, but if he knows they're here, that's a little more courage for him.

"Hello! Anyone home?"

It's Combeferre. Enjolras wants to cry from temporary happiness. 

"Hi, 'Ferre," he says, hoping his voice isn't shaking. "My parents are here."

"Oh." Combeferre comes into the apartment, slipping his shoes and jacket into the closet and putting his key in the bowl. He's so neat all the time. When he comes over to the couch, his face is carefully masked distaste. "Hello," he says. "I've heard so much about you."

Enjolras's parents have visited a few times before, but Enjolras has always tried to keep them away from his friends. They've met Cosette, and nearly gotten into a fight with Bahorel, but this is the first time they're meeting Combeferre. 

"I imagine we've heard about you, too," says Enjolras's dad, frigidly polite, though his lip is curled in disdain. "Which one are you again? The artist? Or the teacher?"

"I'm a doctor," Combeferre tells them. "Neurology department at Ronald Reagan.”

"Oh, I see."

There's no way they can object to this. Neurosurgery brings with it a certain dignity that's hard to ignore. Still, they try their hardest to remain unimpressed.

"You're rather young, aren't you?" asks Enjolras's mom. "Are you really a doctor yet?"

"Yes. I started my residency last year."

"Hmm. And how is it?"

"It's unlike anything I've ever done. But I hope that I'm bringing some light into people's lives."

He really means it, too. Combeferre is truly one of the best people in the world. But Enjolras's parents just sniff.

"I don't doubt that you are," says his mom, in a way that suggests she feels the opposite. Combeferre just smiles, unperturbed.

"Thank you."

"Is Courfeyrac coming?" asks Enjolras, trying to keep the hope out of his voice. His parents will definitely notice that. Combeferre nods.

"I think so. He said he was just finishing something at work, and then he'll be here."

"Tell me," says Enjolras's dad before the relief can sink in. "None of your friends seem to be students. Are they all older than you?"

"Not all of them." 

It's true. Jehan is a few months younger. And so is Cosette, by a couple of days. But it's true, Enjolras is one of the youngest out of his group. He doesn't think this is a bad thing. As long as they all love each other, what's a couple years' difference?

"Most of us met in university," says Combeferre. "A lot of us had graduated by the time Enjolras came along, but his first year overlapped with Joly and Eponine's last year."

This should appease Enjolras's parents, and it does, a little, but Enjolras can see that they're also displeased at having their chance for indignation taken away. This is how they are. They don't have opinions, just things they don't like, and if they're deprived of a chance to be reasonably angry, well, then they will be unreasonably furious. He's been on the receiving end of this fury innumerable times, but he can only pray that this won't be one of them.

"Anyway," he says. "I'm very lucky to have them all in my life."

"Isn't that special?" Enjolras's mom makes a face, displeasure so clear that it's almost palpable. "Anyway, dear, why don't we say goodbye to your friend now? We'd like it if you'd come with us to a party tonight."

Ah. So that's why they're here. They want Enjolras to be a prop for them. He wants to refuse, especially with Combeferre watching, but then his mom pinches the back of his neck, a warning not to get out of line. He bows his head.

"All right. Then, I'll go get dressed."

\--

The party is awful, of course, made worse by the fact that Enjolras is supposed to follow his parents around dutifully and act as a prop whenever the need arises. He gets through it, though, partially because of the free wine, and partially because his parents abandon him partway through to talk to some "grown-ups," who are apparently too high level for him to interact with. So, he loses himself in the crowd, and runs off to the bathroom, where he spends the rest of the night hiding under the towel rack. Overall, it's just bearable, not nearly as bad as some of the parties he's been to in the past.

That night, though, when they all get back, Enjolras's parents sit him down, fencing him in on either side, and have a Meaningful Chat with him. He'd known it was coming for awhile, but he really, really doesn't want it to happen now. (Of course, it's not like there's any better time for it to happen.)

"Listen," says his mom. "I think it's important to tell you. We didn't come just for a regular visit- we wanted to talk to you. We're concerned."

Enjolras knows his role here. He doesn't like it, but that doesn't make a difference, not when his parents are concerned.

"I'm sorry," he says. "It's too bad you had to come all this way for me. What's the matter?"

"I'm glad you asked." His dad puts a hand on his leg, a little too _much_ , and it's all he can do not to flinch away. "Your mother is right, Enjolras. We're worried. You see, we feel like lately you haven't been treating us very well."

So it's _this_ version of the conversation, then. Enjolras represses the urge to sigh. "I'm sorry. What have I done?"

" _What have I done_ ," his dad repeats in falsetto, his way of imitating Enjolras's (admittedly high-pitched) voice. "Come on, you're not even going to give us the courtesy of thinking about your actions a little bit?"

Enjolras hates when they do this. It's bad enough having to talk about his supposed wrongdoings without being forced to enumerate them, too. But it's all part of the drama, and there's no way to deviate from the script. 

"Okay," he says. "I suppose I haven't visited lately."

"No, you haven't. And?"

"And I guess I haven't talked to you guys as much as I should."

"Yes. And?"

This is the worst one. "And... I guess I've been acting ungrateful and selfish."

"You seemed a bit reluctant there, but at least you thought about it." His dad slides his hand a little further up his leg. "So. What do you have to say?"

Enjolras knows what he wants to say, but it's not allowed, not okay. He can't say it, and he can't move away from this awful _touching_ and he can't get up and leave and run crying for Combeferre, no matter how much he wants to. So he bows his head.

"I'm sorry." 

But words mean nothing without action (incidentally, this is one of the few good lessons Enjolras's parents have taught him) and he can't just leave it at this. So he steels himself for a second, and stretches out his arms for a hug.

It's almost unbearable. First his mom embraces him, proprietary and assured, as if taking it as her due, and it's terrible, but it's nothing, almost nothing, because then his dad takes his turn, grasping him just a little too low on the back, and breathing heavily onto his hair.

"Yeah, that's how to behave," he says. "See, you know how to be good for us."

Enjolras doesn't dare wiggle or make a sound, even though his skin feels like it's crawling now. He wants to scream, wants to run away, wants _anything_ but this. He doesn't know how much more he can take, and he has to, because if he doesn't, it'll be ten times worse, but now it's like there are spiders crawling up and down his spine, and he's shivering despite himself. He tries to shift a little bit, hoping to get away without raising suspicion, but of course, his dad notices.

"What, don't you want to hug your dad now? Are you that unfriendly?"

"No, I..."

"Don't you love us?"

It's this, now. Enjolras feels his threat closing up. "I do," he whispers. 

It's not enough. His dad drags a hand across his face.

"You must not. Otherwise you would say it."

"I. Love you."

Enjolras wants to die. He hates this hates it _so much_. He must be convincing, though, because his dad lets it go at that.

"Very well. Then, why don't you want to hug us? You know it's a child's job to provide affection."

This is a quote from one of those disgusting parenting books he loves, and it's wrong. He's wrong. Enjolras knows he's wrong. And yet.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to seem unloving."

"And yet you did."  Now it's his mom's turn. She puts an arm around him, all saccharine fake-concern. "What's wrong? Why are you acting like this?"

There's only one right answer. "I'm sorry. I was taking you guys for granted."

"At least you know." Finally, his mom releases him, but he almost wishes she hadn't, because she pushes him against his dad. "Now. Show some affection."

Enjolras opens his arms again. He has no other choice. When his dad grabs him, he feels like the last light in the house has been shut off. He squeezes his eyes shut tight, trying to go to another place, but no matter how hard he tries, he can't leave any of this behind. 

So, that's how it is, then. He feels himself go limp, too exhausted to struggle anymore, even with himself. Whatever happens now, there'll be no stopping.


	5. Chapter 5

"So." Joly folds his hands under his chin and peers at Enjolras from across the table. They're out at the local greasy-spoon for a late night pick-me-up (not that Enjolras wants to be around food, but it's hard to deny the demands of his friends en masse like this), and though they're all done eating, everyone's still clustered around the suspiciously sticky table. The neon sign in the window flickers, and Enjolras follows it with his eyes.

"What?" he says.

"I heard your parents came to visit."

Flicker, flicker. They should update this place, or at least wash the windows every once in awhile. It's hard to see the street, even.

"Is that true?"

Enjolras looks down at the table. The neon is too sharp. "It's true."

"Well? How was it?"

"Like you'd expect."

"What does that mean?"

"The usual. It's my parents."

"We don't know your parents. You've never told us much."

The booth feels sticky under Enjolras's bare legs. He hates vinyl diner benches, hates the way they stick and catch. 

"I don't like to talk about them much."

"Why not?" 

He's pushy tonight. It must be the second cup of coffee. Enjolras picks up a discarded sugar packet and twists it in his fingers.

"I don't know. I should, maybe. Didn't want to bother anyone." 

"You know you're not a bother. We want to know things about you."

"Then ask."

Everyone else is listening now. Enjolras can tell. They've gone so quiet that he can hear every word of whatever 80s pop medley is playing over the speakers. He wants to redact his statement, tell them never mind, he can't talk about hard things right now, but he's a man of his word, and he never takes anything back unless it's proven to be wrong. At least he has his values to hold on to, even when the rest of him seems to be falling apart. 

"Okay. Then, tell us."

That's Musichetta, bold as fire, unafraid of asking the hard questions. It makes sense that she'd take over for Joly now. Enjolras swallows around the lump of ice in his throat.

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

There's not that much to say, really. It's not like Enjolras's family tried to induct him into crime or sell him to strange men, like Eponine's did, or overworked and beat him to the point of physical disability, like Cosette's. They aren't even purposefully awful like Marius's or Grantaire's. He has no right to complain. And yet...

"They use me. Not- not sexually. Although my dad- no. It doesn't count. I... They use me as a toy. I'm not a person to them. So it's okay to be neglectful, or slap me around a little, because I'm just their belonging, you know, not even a person. I don't think it's as bad as any of your parents, and I know I shouldn't complain. I'm sorry."

There's an arm around him now, heavy and strong enough to keep him upright. It's Grantaire- he always sees everything. "Are you okay, love? You don't have to talk about this if you don't want to."

"No, it's fine, I'm..." _Fine_ seems like an overstatement. "I can handle myself."

"Okay. Just let us know."

"So your parents hit you?" asks Cosette. "You know, that's serious business. It's not normal."

"It's nothing compared to what you went through. Really, it's not the worst part."

"Then what _is_ the worst part?"

_The way I feel violated after every interaction. The way that not even scratching my skin off can take away the stains from where they touch me. The way I can hardly breathe because I feel so contaminated, so dirty, so much less than human. But I can't tell you that, I can't let you see._

"What? Why not?"

Did he talk without realizing it again? That's been happening more often lately, reality bending and warping and conflating with what's inside his head. He'll try to think one thing and say another, and sometimes it works, but more often, it doesn't.

Like now. Cosette looks so concerned. Why should she, though? It's not like Enjolras has any right to speak over her, not with what she's endured. 

"I'm fine," he says. "It's nothing."

"I don't have a corner on the abuse market, you know," Cosette tells him dryly. "And neither does anyone else, no matter what you might think. Your experiences are as valid as ours."

"They're not. I'm not... Listen. I'm privileged. You know this. My parents pay my college tuition, and they visit me, and they buy me clothes, and when I go home, they drive me around. They even paid for my stay in the hospital. And it's not even like they try to be mean or anything, I mean they don't try to refer to me by my birth name or introduce me as their daughter anymore, and they do their best to make sure I have everything I need. So what if I'm a little uncomfortable? I don't deserve to complain, not when I'm living such a good life."

"But you're not living a good life, are you?" Combeferre says. Until now he's stayed out of it, though he knows a little more about Enjolras's situation than the others. But now he's jumping in feet first. Enjolras shakes his head.

"I'm so stupid. All these problems- they're just in my head. And I'm a spoiled little rich boy who wants to feel special, so I'm making up mental illnesses and even a goddamn eating disorder, and they're not even bad or real or anything, I don't have problems, but I want to, because I'm so pathetic that I can't handle being normal, and I invented all of this so I can get attention, or something, I don't even know, but it must be, it's just that..."

He stops, unable to talk anymore. To his dismay (and not-quite surprise), he realizes he's crying almost hysterically, bowed over on himself and gasping for breath. He's not sure how long he's been crying, or how long his friends have been looking at him like that, but however long it is, it's too much. He pushes himself out of the booth (thank goodness only Jehan is between him and the exit) and wobbles to his feet.

"I have to go."

"What? Where? Why are you leaving all of a sudden?"

_I'm suffocating. I need to go._

"Please don't run off. We can talk about this."

_No, we can't. I can't even breathe._

"Enjolras?"

_No, no, no. Please stop, please let me go._

"Are you okay? Enjolras!"

_Let me go._

That's his last conscious thought. In a vague, sort of dream-like way, he knows the others are bending over him (how did they get over him?) and there's shouting and panicking and noise, noise, and bright lights that won't stay still. But that's not real. He'll think about it another day. All that matters right now is leaving all of this behind.

\--

Enjolras wakes up in white. The walls, the ceiling, the gleaming floor, even the curtain next to him are white, and covering him is a stark, white sheet, stiff and too thin to match the chill in the air. It's sharp, cold, too clean and terrifying, and Enjolras knows exactly why. He's in the hospital again.

How could this have happened? After all of his efforts to the contrary, too. Is he really that pathetic? He lifts his head (sluggishly- he's only just woken up after all), searching for some sign that this is fake, just another bad dream. Unfortunately, he finds none. 

So, here he is. Against his best efforts, he starts to cry, sobs echoing around the stark tiles of the room, more reminders of his failure. It makes him feel worse, but he can't seem to stop.

And then, the curtain is being drawn aside, and Grantaire appears, holding a bottle of water, and looking horrified.

"I'm so sorry," he says. "I stepped out to get you this, I didn't mean to leave you alone. I'm so sorry you woke up by yourself, sweetheart."

Enjolras wants to tell him it's okay, that he wouldn't expect him to stick around. But he can't stop crying long enough to speak. 

Fortunately, he doesn't need to. Grantaire comes over to sit on the edge of his bed and wraps his arms around him, pulling him to his chest in a smooth, easy gesture.

"It's okay," he says softly. "I know this is awful for you. But I'm here, and I won't leave you again. And Combeferre and Joly are here, too, and they'll be back any minute. It's okay, doll. We're here. We'll take care of you."

Enjolras shivers against him, trying to remember how it feels to be safe. "Don't go. Please don't go."

"I won't. I promise, dear heart, I'm here."

That's something real, at least, something Enjolras can hold onto. He stays quiet, or as quiet as he can be, anyway, with his breath catching and embarrassing little whimpers being pulled from his throat, and tries to keep himself present. It's easier with Grantaire here, but he still finds it hard to keep even externally calm.

Before too long, the curtain is being drawn aside again, and Combeferre and Joly come in, followed by a doctor and a nervous-looking intern. On seeing them, Grantaire lets go of Enjolras and goes back to his chair by the bed. Without him, the room suddenly feels much too cold. Enjolras wonders if being in the hospital is what kills people.

The doctor doesn't seem to notice his discomfort, though, only smiles and comes up to the bed. "Hi, I'm Dr. Lee," she says. "You can call me Zéphine, though. You must be Enjolras."

Of course. No one else in here is stupid enough or pathetic enough. His aura of dismal failure must be visible to everyone who glances his way. _Yeah, there's Enjolras, the worst person in human history! Just look for blond hair and an overwhelming sense of incompetence!_

Too late, he realizes he hasn't said anything. Well, that's fine. It's just another item on the list of things he can't do. He lowers his head, unable to make eye contact with anyone.

"Do you know where you are?" continues Zéphine. 

Enjolras tries to talk, but his mouth is so dry, and the only thing that comes out is a little puff of air. When he tries again, his voice is whispery and dry as dust. "Hospital?"

"Yes, this is the emergency room. Do you know why you're here?"

Enjolras shakes his head. He has no idea what happened, only that if there's a divine presence guiding his life, it must hate him. Zéphine smiles at him anyway, though, despite his failure to recognize even this tiniest part of his medical history. She's much too kind.

"Your friends say you fainted suddenly, and you wouldn't wake up, so they brought you here. Do you remember any of that?"

"No."

"Okay. Well, let me ask you this. When was the last time you ate or drank anything?"

This again? Enjolras wants to cry. In fact, he thinks, there are tears sliding down his cheeks, dripping off his chin like running bath water, but hopefully they're not too noticeable. The crack in his voice will be, though, so he just shakes his head.

Now Zéphine loses her smile. "I see. Then, do you think you could drink a bottle of juice while you're here? We can't let you go home like this. In fact..."

Combeferre pulls her away for a murmured discussion. Dully, Enjolras wonders what they're talking about, especially since it seems to concern him, but he can't dare to hope that it could be in his favor. That's just not how things go.

In a minute, Zéphine is back, leaning over him.

"So, I hear you're not a big fan of hospitals," she says.

How did she find out? Did Combeferre tell her? But he's not supposed to know. Enjolras blinks at her, wondering if this is all part of some elaborate test. If he agrees, maybe they'll stick him in a back room for some overly-invasive psych evaluation. And if he argues, well, then he has to stay here. It's all lose-lose.

"It's okay." Combeferre says, coming over to the bed and catching Enjolras's hand. "I told her. And it's okay."

"But how did you..."

"I told him." Grantaire's here now, and he looks so ashamed of himself, like he used to when he and Enjolras didn't get along. He reaches for Enjolras's other hand, but slowly, as if he's afraid of being rebuffed. "I'm so sorry, babe. I know you didn't want him to know, but it was the only way I could think to try and stop everyone from bringing you here. Well, I guess we brought you here anyway, but at least now everyone understands. I'm so sorry, though."

Enjolras squeezes weakly at his hand. "It's okay. You were helping."

Zéphine coughs lightly, bringing the attention back to the matter at hand. "So. Normally, we wouldn't do this, but you have two friends who are doctors, and, it seems, several more who are anxious to help you. They're all in the waiting area. Now, if we send you home, will you promise to let your friends take care of you? That way, we won't have to make your anxiety worse by keeping you here."

"'Kay." 

Anything to get out of here. Enjolras would give himself over to his parents' tender mercies if it meant he could leave and take his rest in a normal place. Fortunately, he doesn't have to, but the thought drags something else out from the edges of his mind, something sharp and unpleasant.

"My parents," he says. "Please."

Zéphine cocks her head, puzzled. "What's that, honey?"

"Please don't tell them. They'll... Please, they can't know."

"He's in a rather abusive situation," cuts in Combeferre smoothly. This isn't right, because it's not _abuse_ , not really, it's just Enjolras being pathetic and scared, but he can't figure out how to say this before Zéphine is frowning and speaking again.

"I understand. But unfortunately, he's on his parents' insurance. Unless he wants to pay for this out of pocket, they're going to have to know."

"I see." Combeferre takes off his glasses and polishes them, seemingly without realizing that he's doing it. This is one of his many nervous tics. He must be upset. "May I speak to the person in charge of this?" he asks. "I understand insurance policy all too well, but you understand, I put Enjolras's safety first."

"Of course. Let me see." Zéphine waves him ahead of her, and they step out of the curtain and out of Enjolras's range of view.

Enjolras doesn't talk. He just lies still and waits and holds Grantaire's hand while he tries to calm him. It's not that effective, because he thinks at this point nothing short of pure morphine could calm him, but it's something, and he appreciates the effort. 

When Zéphine and Combeferre come back, they're looking triumphant. Enjolras is in possession of his senses enough to know that this is probably a good thing, and that's all he needs to worry about right now. He looks at them pleadingly, willing them to explain, or better yet, tell him he can leave. Probably, he just looks sad, but Combeferre smiles at him anyway.

"We got it all straightened out. At least, sort of. Your parents will know that you were here, but they won't know why. Will that be okay?"

It's better than nothing. Enjolras knows they'll still be angry, but at least this way, they can't say that he's an embarrassment. For all they know, his tonsillitis could have come back or something. He reaches a shaking hand out to Combeferre.

"Thank you."

"Of course."

"Can I go home?"

Combeferre looks at Zéphine. She nods.

"We'll get you a wheelchair."

"I don't need it," Enjolras tries to protest, but no one seems to hear him. Before he really knows what's happening, he's being bundled into a chair by Joly and the still-frightened intern, who touches him only over his clothes and avoids looking into his eyes. It brings back memories of his time in the hospital (the _other_ time in the hospital, the long one, the one that still flits through his fever dreams).

"Are you okay?" Combeferre asks him, materializing with a chart and a pen. Enjolras wants to reassure him, but when he goes to speak, all that comes out is a strangled, "no, please take me home."

"We will, we will. We'll take you right now." Joly finishes tucking in the blanket and stands. "Combeferre, can you sign him out? I'm going to take him to the car."

"Sure, no problem. I'll see you soon, okay?"

Enjolras tries to stir. He can't really do it, because embarrassingly, he can't stand by himself, but he does wiggle around, and he figures that counts for something, especially because it catches Joly's attention. He frowns and sets a hand on his shoulder.

"What's wrong?"

"Grantaire? Where..."

"I'm here." Grantaire appears, and Enjolras doesn't know how he didn't see him before, since he's not exactly one to blend into his surroundings, but he doesn't question it, just reaches out for him.

"Stay with me?"

"I will. I won't leave you, sweetheart."

Slightly calmed, Enjolras shuts his eyes and allows himself to be wheeled out of the hospital and into the parking lot. It's embarrassing; he hopes no one he knows is here to bear witness to his moment of weakness. Then again, maybe he deserves the humiliation for being such a failure of a human being. This is nothing more than he can expect.

It takes awhile to get him into the car, because his body won't do what he wants it to, and he can only move when the others help him. He can't even sit upright without feeling like he's going to faint, so Joly stretches him out on the backseat with his head on Grantaire's lap. It's definitely more comfortable than anything else, but he can still feel the seatbelt buckles digging into his side, and it hurts a little. But Grantaire pets his hair and talks to him softly, and though it's hard to hear over the ringing in his ears, it's enough that he can close his eyes and doze off into a fitful half-sleep.

It seems like they're home in a matter of minutes. Grantaire shakes him awake, gentle, but insistent.

"C'mon, sleepyhead. Let's get you inside, okay? Then we can get you more comfy."

"Mm. This is comfy."

"Maybe, but I think your bed would be better. Come on." Grantaire picks him up and maneuvers him out of the car. It's impressive, really, given Enjolras's level of floppiness, but Enjolras is too far gone to pay attention to that. He just lets the activity happen until he's in his apartment. 

Once inside, Grantaire takes him to the bedroom and gets him changed into a big tshirt and shorts. Then he sits him down and carefully brushes his hair for him, which is good, because it's dreadfully tangled from lying on things. It's also calming; Enjolras feels much better by the time his hair is straightened out. Then, Grantaire picks him up without ceremony and tucks him into bed. He climbs in, too, which is more than Enjolras had expected, and everything he could want. They cuddle for a minute, warm and comforting, before Combeferre comes in, Gatorade bottle in hand.

"Here," he says. "I know you're cozy, cupcake, but you need to drink this. You're really dehydrated."

Enjolras shakes his head against Grantaire's chest. "I don't want to."

"Yeah, but you need to. Come on."

Enjolras hums weakly. He's never been one to deny his friends anything, even if it comes at great personal cost. He tries to sit up, but doesn't quite manage it. His head stays firmly stuck against Grantaire. Oh, well, no help for it. He'll just have to go to sleep now. He closes his eyes.

"Can't, sorry. Goodnight."

"Aww, no. Come on, love." Grantaire lifts him up, even going so far as to support his markedly spinning head. "Let's get you something to drink, okay?"

"But I don't need..."

"Yeah, you do. Come on. Let Combeferre give you your juice."

"'M not a baby."

"I know, I know. But you're weak right now, and you need help. Will you let us take care of you?"

Enjolras sighs. It's so embarrassing. But then again, there's a part of him that wants to let go, let himself be taken care of. He doesn't know what in the hell that is, since he's always done his best to be self-sufficient, deny this shameful part of himself and be strong, but his head is spinning and his ears are ringing and he doesn't think he could make a coherent argument if his life depended on it. He nods, a short, choppy movement.

"I'll drink it."

"Good boy." Grantaire sighs in obvious relief. He kisses Enjolras on the forehead, sweeter than he deserves, and motions to Combeferre. "I think he's ready."

"Okay." Combeferre brings the bottle up, straw and all, runs a hand  through Enjolras's hair, and tilts his head back. "Here, open your mouth, sweetie."

It's still embarrassing, but Enjolras manages to drink the juice anyway.

Or at least, he tries. He gets through about a third of the bottle before he starts overthinking the process and forgets how to swallow. Combeferre quickly pulls the bottle away, rubbing his back as he splutters and coughs.

"You okay, hon?"

"Mm. Give me a sec."

"Take as much time as you need."

This clearly is an overstatement, because as soon as Enjolras has gotten his breathing sorted out, Combeferre is pushing the bottle towards him again, paying no heed to his sounds of protest.

"Come on. Let's get you through the whole thing before you go back to sleep."

"It's too much."

"No, it's not. You need the liquid and the electrolytes, otherwise you're just going to faint again. C'mon."

 _I can't_ , Enjolras wants to say, but that's not the sort of thing that anyone says to Combeferre. He nods instead.

"Okay. I'll try."

"Good. That's right, that's good. Keep going, little one." Combeferre continues to murmur encouragements while he holds the bottle and Enjolras drinks. It's lovely, and Enjolras is glad that he's doing it because he probably wouldn't be able to drink anything otherwise, but it's also embarrassing, because it means that his attention is fixed where it shouldn't be- on the Enjolras Is Weak Show. Grantaire is paying too much attention also, holding his hand and rubbing the back of his neck as if he's not horrified and disgusted by this pathetic spectacle that Enjolras provides. And maybe he's not. Enjolras knows he wouldn't judge anyone if they were in his position. But he's always been different, hasn't he? That's just his cross to bear.

It seems to take centuries, but finally Enjolras finishes enough of the juice to satisfy Combeferre, and Grantaire helps him lie back down again. He has to admit, he feels a little stronger, even though his tummy is uncomfortably tight now, and he can practically hear the liquid sloshing around. Medical praxis is right after all, even if it's kind of insufferable, too.

He goes to sleep only a few minutes later. Grantaire stays with him, which is at least some measure of comfort, and he thinks Combeferre does too, but by this point, he's so worn out that he doesn't really notice anything but the weird half-dreams that are already starting to buzz through his head. They're going to be bad, he thinks, and he doesn't want to go to sleep because then they'll get him, but he's too tired, and he can't do anything about it. He sleeps, already preparing for the moment when he's going to wake again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: really serious talk of suicide and suicidal ideation  
> frreal it's very dark PLEASE be careful

Enjolras doesn't want to leave his room. It's safe in here, or safer, at least, since the only danger to him is himself, and if he goes outside, people will see him. They'll see him and hate him and be so disgusted, and maybe he'll ruin someone's day, because who wouldn't be unhappy to have such an awful sight inflicted on them? 

Certainly, his therapist will. That's why he has to go out; he has a therapy appointment in half an hour, and he really needs to get going. But he doesn't want to. It's not just that he doesn't want to go out; definitely, that's a problem, too, but if it was just that, he could probably handle it. He does go to class, after all. No, this is more. It's therapy, and he doesn't want to go to therapy. He doesn't think it's because he's afraid of getting better, as Combeferre gently suggested when he mentioned it, although it's true that could be a part of it. It's just, therapy is practically torture. He always feels so horrible afterwards, not in a good way, like he had after some of the more successful sessions in the hospital, but dirty, and _wrong_ , like he's spent too much time being used, and now he's rusting away.

At least it's only once a week. He doesn't think he could take any more than that.

Although, he's not even sure he can take this much. He wants to die, right now, just instantly, so he doesn't have to deal with this. Everything would be so much easier. He sends a cursory glance around the room, looking for things that aren't there anymore (Combeferre has death-proofed the house, which would make him laugh if it weren't so profoundly annoying), and seeing nothing but his own hopelessness, sighs and flops down on the bed again.

He has to go. He has to leave so he can be on time.

Maybe it's just him. Maybe he's so fundamentally broken that even these attempts at healing just push him further down. Or maybe it's because he's faking it all, and healing won't work because there's nothing to heal. It's one of the two, or maybe a combination of both, and on some level, he knows this is irrational, but he feels too sick to care. His chest hurts, and there's a cold, heavy feeling in his stomach, and his head is spinning and ringing and it just won't _stop_.

He needs to go. Last time he was late, Theodule harangued him for it, and he doesn't want to go through that again.

If only he could think straight. Everything's so fuzzy nowadays. It's just more proof of his failure, and shows how stupid and pathetic he is, especially since his mind used to be so clear and sharp. Or maybe it wasn't. Maybe he was imagining it the whole time. But if that's the case, what's real? Is he real? Is the _world_ real? What's he even fighting for?

That's it. He needs to go.

He can't wear his jacket, because it's too tight and will show off how hideous his body is (even though it's looser now than it has been), so he puts on the biggest sweater he can find, and a pair of leggings that Courfeyrac bought him awhile back. This is his normal type of outfit now. He hates that he has to show off his disgusting legs, but he just can't bring himself to wear loose pants, because they're ugly, and he doesn't want to be ugly. Even now, his vanity triumphs over his pride. 

He picks up his mini backpack and phone and opens the door. He's just about to leave, when he hears voices from the living room, and hesitates. Who's out there? He hadn't thought anyone was home. Cautiously, he creeps forward to listen.

"I don't know, I was just disappointed. We missed you the other night."

That's Bossuet. Enjolras would recognize his cheerful bass anywhere. Although, he doesn't sound that cheerful now. Whom is he talking to?

"I'm sorry." 

It's Joly. He doesn't sound happy, either. But why is he here? Why are both of them here?

"I don't want to make excuses," Joly goes on. "But, you have to understand. Enjolras needed help."

"He had Combeferre. And R, you know, his boyfriend."

"I know. But I wanted to be there for him."

Bossuet sighs. It's an incongruous sound. "I'm tired of it. I feel like lately everything's been revolving around him. Poor little sick angel, taking up everyone's time."

Enjolras feels his heart shrink down. So this is what his friends think of him. They hate him. He's always been afraid of it, but now his fears have been confirmed in the worst way possible. He closes his eyes, not wanting to hear anymore, but unable to turn away.

"Don't say that." That's Combeferre, and he sounds angry, probably because he agrees with Bossuet and feels guilty about it. "He's my best friend, and I love him. And this is when he needs us the most. I'm not going to turn away from him now."

"Of course you'd say that. And I mean, I'm not suggesting we abandon him or anything. But it just seems like we can't do anything fun anymore. Either he faints, or he has a panic attack, or he sits there and stares at the wall all night, or _something_. It's always something."

It's true. Enjolras knows it's true. He's known for awhile that he's inconveniencing his friends, and he's been feeling progressively worse about it as time goes on, so this doesn't really come as a surprise. In fact, he doesn't really feel anything. Without thinking too much, because it's easier to just stay cold and numb right now, he hoists up his bag and walks out into the living room.

Immediately, Bossuet and Joly shoot up guiltily. Combeferre looks up, too, but his face is sad, like he's not surprised that Enjolras was there. 

"Hey," he says. "I thought you'd gone out."

Enjolras feels vaguely dreamy. He holds up his phone. "I'm going now. My Uber is here."

It's not. He hasn't even called. But that doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Combeferre continues to look at him, sadder than ever.

"You need a ride later?"

That's too much to offer. It must be his lingering guilt, but Enjolras can't accept even this measure of kindness, not when he deserves so much less. He smiles as best he can.

"No. I'll see you."

Bossuet looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn't get it out before Enjolras is out the door.

\--

His therapy appointment goes about as he expected. Theodule yells at him for being late again, telling him he has a personal and professional responsibility to do better, and if he's that against the idea of getting better, maybe he shouldn't be here at all. Enjolras agrees with this in that he doesn't want to be here, but he can't say this, because it'll only lead to more yelling and more discomfort. So he bows his head and murmurs an apology, and finally Theodule turns his attention to other matters.

"How have you been eating?" he asks. 

It's too straightforward. Usually, Enjolras would appreciate this, but when the conversation comes to him, especially this facet of him, he'd rather everything stay as murky as possible. He shrugs.

"So you haven't been?"

Another shrug. Why can't he see that Enjolras doesn't want to answer?

"You're uncommunicative today. Why so recalcitrant?"

It's not that he's trying to be. He just doesn't know how to answer. It's all too awkward, too much, too not-okay-enough, and it's all so difficult. But he has to say something now, or Theodule will start getting personal. That's the way it goes.

"I heard something."

Theodule's eyes light up. Here's something he can latch on to. "What? What did you hear?"

"My friends. They're sick of me."

"Really? And why do you say that?"

"Because they said so." Enjolras tells the story of his afternoon, still too detached for it to hurt. At some point, he's going to start agonizing over this, but he barely even feels real, so it hasn't happened yet.

Theodule listens, eyes bright. Enjolras suspects (perhaps uncharitably) that he became a therapist for his own personal interest value. Certainly, he seems to thrive on pain. When Enjolras is done talking, he sits up straighter, signaling that his time for eloquence has come.

"So, that sounds unfortunate." He doesn't sound like he thinks it's unfortunate at all. "You say you've expected this to be the case?"

"Yes."

"I see. Well, you're a smart boy. You do pick up on nuance well."

"So you agree?"

Theodule strokes his chin. He looks like he's deep in bliss. "Well, yes and no. I don't think it's quite as simple as them hating you. But I do think there's something there. That is, their point of view is understandable."

This is the last thing Enjolras wants to hear. He thinks he would give anything to be anywhere else right now. But he can't very well get up and leave, especially when there's a dark, masochistic impulse whispering in his ear and telling him to stay. He lowers his head- he can do that much, at least- and waits for Theodule to continue. 

It doesn't take long. Theodule can't keep his mouth shut.

"That sounded harsh," he says. "But you have to understand. Your friends have their own lives. And you have been taking up a great deal of their time and attention." He pauses, maybe waiting for Enjolras to agree, _oh yes, I've been a sink on everyone, I'm trash_ , but he doesn't, so he just goes on. "Your boyfriend, Grantaire, is it? You've mentioned that he has his own issues to deal with. Depression, you said, and other mental health problems, maybe some alcoholism, too? Surely you understand that he would resent having to devote all his time to you."

"He doesn't," Enjolras tries to say, because he does do his best to support Grantaire in every way he can, but now that he thinks about it, his own issues have taken precedence recently, what with him having to be taken to the hospital and fainting all the time. So the words stick in his throat, and Theodule looks at him triumphantly.

"I thought so. And your other friends, you've mentioned that they have their problems, too. Problems that are a bit more severe than yours, hmm?"

"Y-yes, that's true."

"Then, it definitely makes sense. Your friends don't exist to cater to your needs. You can't be selfish here, Enjolras. You need to let them go."

This is what Enjolras had been afraid of. He loves his friends more than he loves himself, and for their benefit, he will fade out of their lives. He's known this, but it hasn't happened yet, because he hasn't fully convinced himself that he needs to yet. But now that he's heard it, from a licensed professional, in fact, he knows that he's going to have to cut himself off, even if he dies in the attempt. Combeferre, Grantaire, Cosette, even Marius- he's going to have to say goodbye to them all.

That's all he can think about for the rest of the session. Theodule says some other things, but they don't register. At the end of the hour, he stands up, mechanically holds out his copay, and wanders out of the building without knowing where he's going. He can't go home, that's for sure, because the others are probably still there, and he wants to avoid them, now that he has to cut himself out of their lives. It's best to make a clean break now. 

So, he drifts around the streets, barely paying attention to the people who honk or catcall him. Once, someone stops to ask him for money, and he hands them a twenty-dollar bill almost without realizing it. Other than that, though, he feels like a ghost, untouchable, unwanted, floating around and infecting everything with which he comes in contact, since his very being is nothing but horrible.

Occasionally, he catches glimpses of himself in car or store windows, and is shocked every time. He feels so unreal that it seems like he shouldn't have a reflection. But there he is, drowning in his oversized sweater, blond curls pulled into a messy ponytail over his shoulder and bangs hanging over his forehead. He could be any artfully disheveled student, just another angel-haired hipster trying to make his way in the city, except for the haunted look in his eyes, and the aura of despair clinging to his wake. 

He loses track of time, walking through the streets like this. It's only when he starts shivering uncontrollably that he looks around and sees that it's dark. Probably, it has been for quite some time. Now that he stops and thinks, he must have been out here awhile- his feet hurt, and his head is pounding like it does when he tries to walk up too many flights of stairs. He should go home, probably, or maybe find somewhere to rest, but unfortunately, he has no idea where he is. Even in the best of times, his sense of direction is none too good, and now, he thinks he's completely lost. Well, that's okay. It gives him an excuse to avoid the others. 

Suddenly weak, he sinks down on the sidewalk, up against the wall of a building. It's a fairly well-lit area, right in the middle of the commercial district, and although there aren't too many people around now, there are enough that he's probably pretty safe. Even if he wasn't, though, he doesn't think he would care that much. He would deserve anything that happened to him. 

In that case, he thinks, he should just close his eyes and rest for awhile, try to get a handle on everything in his head. He's not sure what's going on, but maybe if he ruminates for a bit, he can start to sort things out. This is as good a time and place as any. He closes his eyes and allows himself to drift away, out of the cold, out of the street, into a soft, swirling expanse of darkness.

He's not sure how long he's out, but the next thing he knows, he's stirring, cramped and uncomfortable, to an insistent buzzing in his hand. So annoying- it's his phone. Dimly, he realizes that it's been going incessantly for awhile now. He slowly lifts it up (he may as well take care of it- it's not like anything could possibly go worse for him right now) and sees that it's Combeferre calling. He slides the call button and holds it up to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Enjolras? Is that you? Are you there?"

"I...think so?"

"Oh, thank god. Thank god. I've been trying to get ahold of you, and you weren't answering, and I thought- no. It's okay. You're okay. You're safe. Where are you?"

"I don't know."

"You don't..."

"Yeah. I don't know."

Combeferre sounds like he's breathing heavily into the phone. Maybe he's pacing around the house. He does that sometimes. Enjolras is struck with a wave of emotion- after this, he's going to have to say goodbye to Combeferre and all his eccentricities. Unless... He takes a breath.

"Ferre-"

"What is it? What's wrong?"

No. He can't ruin anyone's life any longer. He sighs, slowly as he can.

"Never mind. I'll get an Uber. See you later, maybe."

"Wait! Enjolras, wait! Are you-"

Enjolras hangs up. He can't do this to himself anymore. Combeferre calls back immediately, but he ignores it, as well as the texts he sends. It's fine, he'll be home soon enough, and then he can dispel any lingering worries. Not that he thinks there really are any; Combeferre is probably just feeling guilty and worrying because he's a good person.

Enjolras feels a stab of self-hatred shoot through his chest. What's he doing anyway, bothering his wonderful friends with his disgusting, nasty self? It's way overdue for him to leave from their lives. Sure, he still has to live with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, but it shouldn't be too hard to stay out of their way. They'll definitely be relieved, too. And soon, he can find another place to stay, where he won't bother anyone anymore. 

Still pondering on these thoughts, he calls an Uber and sets his address, barely paying any attention to what's going on. When they arrive, his driver tries to make small-talk, and he's pretty sure he answers, but what he says, he has no idea. He just knows that it takes both way too long and not long enough to get home.

Before he can even go to unlock the door, Combeferre is flinging it open, eyes wild behind his glasses. He grabs Enjolras almost roughly, pulling him off his feet as he crushes him into a lung-crunching hug.

"Enjolras," he says, then stops, apparently not able to get any further than that. Enjolras shifts against him awkwardly.

"Ferre..."

Abruptly, Combeferre pulls away, and begins to pat him all over. "Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere? No one did anything to you, right?"

"No, but..."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I'm fine."

It's as if Combeferre deflates. He sags forward, putting his arms around Enjolras once again, and leaning on him. Enjolras wants to hug him back, but he's not sure if he's allowed. Is that something he can do?

Fuck it. He lifts up his arms to wrap them around Combeferre's waist. He's not doing this because he's trying to be clingy, he tells himself, just because Combeferre is upset, and he wants to help.

Certainly, it does seem to help a little. Combeferre's breathing slowly becomes less ragged, and he stops flopping quite so heavily. After a minute, he gets himself together enough to look Enjolras in the eye.

"I love you. You know that, right?"

Enjolras looks down. He doesn't know what he's supposed to say. Combeferre seems to take his silence as a tacit "no." He sighs, sounding absolutely broken-hearted, but instead of saying anything else, he kisses Enjolras on the forehead, impossibly, painfully gentle.

"I love you," he says again.

He turns away to get his phone, mumbling something about telling the others that Enjolras is safe, so he doesn't see when Enjolras starts to cry, overcome at last. 

He may not see, but he does hear. Enjolras is trying to be quiet about it, because he doesn't want to make it seem like he's looking for attention, or trying to pull Combeferre back into his orbit when he made the conscious decision to leave. Crying is never as quiet as it should be, though, and soon he lets out a hideous, ragged sob. Combeferre whirls back to him.

"Enjolras! What's wrong? Are you okay?"

_No, I'm not, please don't leave me. 'Ferre..._

Unsteady as a drunkard, Enjolras pushes past the reach of Combeferre's arms. He can't be here, can't be trying to get comfort from the very same person whose life he's been destroying. If he goes to his bedroom, he thinks, maybe Combeferre will give him up as a lost cause, tell all their friends ( _his_ friends, Enjolras reminds himself- he can't claim them as such now), assuage his guilt in that way. And then he'll fade away, because that's what he needs to do, what he's supposed to do. Disappearing like this, this is the only way Enjolras can do right by the world now. 

He doesn't quite make it to the bedroom. He stumbles halfway, falling to the carpet in an inglorious tumble. Then, unable to find the strength to move himself, he sits on his knees and weeps aloud, railing against everything he is for his weakness and failure. What a pathetic figure he must make, he thinks, incompetent enough to fuck up his own dramatic exit. He hates himself, hates himself, hates himself _so much_.

Combeferre is at his side in a heartbeat, putting himself at the same level to kneel down beside him. "Hey. You fell."

 _I know. I_ know _I did, 'Ferre. I'm so clumsy and pathetic, so stupid, I can't even do this right. Please don't hate me, even for this, I want you to remember me kindly, please-_

"What?"

"Please, 'Ferre..."

"Oh, Enjolras. What's wrong? You can tell me."

But he can't. That's the whole problem. He can't be here, can't be ruining any other lives like he's ruined his own. He lifts a hand to his eyes, ineffectually trying to stop the tears.

"I'm so sorry, 'Ferre. And please, tell the others, too. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have made your lives so bad, I shouldn't have tried to make you stay with me. I know I can't...but I'm so, I'm so..."

"Enjolras, what are you saying?"

Combeferre's voice is deadly serious. He sounds like he's just run into his worst fear in the whole world. Enjolras feels bad about that, because he knows it's probably something he's done, but it's okay. This, at least, he can fix. Combeferre won't have to suffer anymore, not after this.

"You don't have to be sad, now," he whispers.

"What? What are you going to do? Talk to me!"

Enjolras tries to get up. He feels like one of those bobble-dolls that keeps rocking around no matter what, physically incapable of being moved, because he can't seem to control himself, can't get up and walk away, even though he knows he has to.

"I need to go," he says, hoping it will spur the process on somehow.

Combeferre reaches out to hold onto him. "No, don't go. Enjolras, sweetheart, you're not well. Let me help."

"No, I can't make you stay with me! I don't want to make things bad for you anymore."

"You're not, though. I want to stay with you. I love you. Do you think I'm going to leave you just because things are a little difficult right now?"

"No, I can't- I want you to be happy, 'Ferre. I just want you to be happy!"

Combeferre is crying. Enjolras hears it, plain as day, and wants to do something, punish himself, maybe, or make it all better, but he doesn't know how, because everything he does seems to be doomed to failure.

"Be happy," he says. It's a plea. 

Combeferre hugs him. It's not quite as tight as before, but it's close. He's still crying, quite obviously, too, but he seems to be in control of himself, which is more than Enjolras can say. 

"I am happy," he says. "I'm happy with you."

"But how could you be? I'm a burden on you, and on everyone else, too. How can you be happy as long as I'm here?"

"Because you're our little sunshine. You're going through a hard time now, so of course we can't expect you to be all cheerful or anything. But we love you, and we want to be there for you no matter what. Because we're your friends. We're not going to be unhappy, or even leave you just because you're sick. What kind of people do you think we are?"

Enjolras can't answer that. He can't really answer any of it. All he knows is what he's decided now, that he wants his friends to be happy, and that he wants to make the world a better place, and that the only way he can do any of this is by ridding everyone of his presence. Isolation won't be enough, he knows, not for him. He has to atone for the guilt of his existence, has to take the most extreme of steps in order to finally do some good for the first and last time in his life. 

"Don't worry," he says. And then, because this is a cryptic statement on its own, "I'm not going to be a nuisance to anyone anymore."

Combeferre goes still. "What do you mean?"

"I'm going to do something. I'll make things right."

"How? What are you going to do?"

"Don't worry. Don't think about it. Just...be happy. When I'm gone, be happy."

Combeferre doesn't seem to know what to say to this. Fortunately for him, he doesn't have to say anything. The door opens at this point, and Courfeyrac comes rushing into the apartment with Grantaire at his back.

"I'm here!" he shouts. "Combeferre! Where is he?"

Combeferre still doesn't say anything. He motions them over with one hand, keeping the other one clasped around Enjolras. Enjolras turns a little so he can see what's going on. He doesn't say anything either, but he dips his head in greeting when Grantaire comes and sits down next to him.

Grantaire reaches out a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. "Hi, kitten. What's going on?"

"I'm sorry. I'm just... I'm going to make things better."

"What?"

"Can you stay here?" asks Combeferre. Grantaire nods, and reaches out to take Enjolras into his arms.

"C'mere, love. Stay with me for a little while."

Enjolras can't, he isn't _allowed_ to, but he can't seem to move, either, so he goes, and it's too nice, much too nice for him. He doesn't deserve this.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he repeats, though it doesn't make him feel better at all, no matter how many times he says it. Combeferre coughs.

"Courfeyrac, can I talk to you in my room?"

"Sure."

With one last, worried look, Courfeyrac follows Combeferre into his room and shuts the door behind them. Probably, they're talking about how much they hate Enjolras, and how happy they're going to be when he's gone. It's understandable. They're both too polite to talk about it right here. But, Enjolras sort of wishes they would. There's no point in hiding anything anymore.

"Grantaire," he says. It's important that he should know.

Grantaire looks at him. His eyes are so soft. "What is it, sweetheart?"

"I..." How to put this? It has to be perfect. Enjolras tries to swallow (difficult, because his mouth is so dry in spite of the tears on his face). "Listen, um- when I'm gone, please be happy. It's okay if you forget me, too, but even if you remember me, please move on, and just... be happy. I want you to be happy."

"Are you- are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"Don't worry. It's the only good thing that I can do."

"No." Grantaire's voice is sharp, and much louder than Enjolras has ever heard him speak before. He must be really angry, if he's talking in such a new and frightening way. 

"I'm sorry-"

"No, stop it. You don't get to- no. Enjolras, you can't kill yourself. You _can't_. Why would you think it's the only good thing you can do? Why..."

"I have to. I can't hurt anyone anymore."

"No! Please, Enjolras. Please." Grantaire squeezes him, upset, yes, but also protective, like he doesn't want anything to touch Enjolras or hurt him in any way. Before things got bad, before Enjolras knew how much of a burden he was, he would have delighted in this. But now, he's just guilty and sad.

"I'm sorry," he says. He barely knows what he's saying. "I'm sorry. I have to."

Grantaire is trembling. His breathing is so rough that Enjolras knows he's crying, which is awful, and the exact opposite of what he wants. He knows it's hard to hear this, but he doesn't want it to be hurtful or anything. He shifts in Grantaire's arms and reaches up to cup his face.

"Don't cry. It's okay."

"How can it be okay? How can _anything_ be okay? You're not..." Grantaire's voice breaks. He has to take a few breaths before he can continue. "Enjolras, please. I know you might not believe me, but I love you so much. We all do. It would destroy us if you died. Please don't do anything, please just think about this a little-"

"I've thought about it a lot."

"Fuck. Enjolras, I'm begging you here, don't..."

"Hey."

It's Combeferre and Courfeyrac. They've come back from their little meeting, and unfortunately, they're crying, too. Enjolras curses himself. Why does he do this to everyone around him?

"You're upset," he says.

"You _think_?"

"Courfeyrac, calm down. Yes, Enjolras, we're upset, but don't worry about that right now. You're having an episode. Please don't do anything until you calm down a little bit, okay?"

Enjolras huffs a little desperate laugh. When is he ever calm? "I can't promise that."

"Then, we're going to call someone. This is out of our depth, and we need to make sure you're safe. Do you want 911 or the suicide hotline?"

"Neither. If you call them, I'll..." He doesn't finish his sentence, because he doesn't know what he would do. Still, it seems to be enough of a threat that Combeferre drops the idea.

Now, Courfeyrac sniffles and speaks up, voice shaking. "What about Cosette's dad? Would you talk to him?"

Cosette's dad is probably one of the kindest people Enjolras knows, and while he doesn't want to talk to him, necessarily, he doesn't _not_ want to talk to him, so he just grunts in halfway-assent. Courfeyrac takes this for what it is, and whips out his phone immediately. 

"I'm going to call," he says, and steps out of the apartment to do just that.

Now, Grantaire picks Enjolras up and carries him over to the sofa. Combeferre follows. They both sit down on either side of him and wrap their arms and legs around him as if they're protecting him from everything outside. Maybe they think they are. It would be just like them. Too bad everything that's wrong with Enjolras is inside him.

"I can't," he says, because he can't do any of this, shouldn't even be interacting with them now, in fact. "I shouldn't. I can't, don't let me ruin things for you." But, his voice is so weak that Combeferre and Grantaire obviously feel free to disregard what he's saying.

"It's okay," says Combeferre. "You're not ruining anything. You're okay, and we're okay."

"You're just saying that."

"No, I'm not. I really mean it. Why wouldn't I?"

"Because you're nice. You're good people, so you feel bad for me, but you shouldn't, because I..."

"Hush." Grantaire puts a hand on his hair, trying to steady him, probably. It works a bit, which is scary, because comfort isn't allowed, not for him.

"I can't," he says again.

"Hmm? What can't you do?"

This isn't an easy question to answer, even if Enjolras had any idea of how to respond at all, so he stays quiet. Grantaire continues to pet his hair, as if he's not bothered at all by the lack of response.

No one says anything for awhile after that. Enjolras isn't sure how much time passes, but presently, Courfeyrac comes back in.

"Cosette's dad is here," he says. "Can he come in? And Cosette, too?"

Combeferre looks down at Enjolras. "Is that okay, hon?"

Enjolras supposes it is. It's not like he can do anything to stop it, anyway. He mumbles something that hopefully sounds like assent, though even he isn't sure what it was he meant to say. 

Combeferre looks up again. He's so impressively purposeful. "Okay," he says. "Let them in."

Cosette always comes into a room like she's returning home. She greets the others gracefully, and comes over to sit on the arm of the couch beside Combeferre.

"Hi," she says, and leaves it at that, although clearly she wants to say more. She's always been good at restraining herself, though. Enjolras struggles to look up and meet her eyes. He owes her that much.

"Hi, Cosette."

"My dad is here," she says, as if that much wasn't obvious already. "Do you want to talk to him?"

"I don't want to bother..."

"He's already here, silly. And you're not bothering him, or any of us, for that matter."

"She's right." As usual, Enjolras is caught off-guard by the smooth richness of Mr. Fauchelevent's voice. He sounds like he should be voice acting, not counseling. 

Enjolras blinks at him slowly. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Oh." Enjolras thinks for a moment. He doesn't want anyone to dissuade him from his plans, but he's always been one to consider a situation from every angle. Even though he's already had some outside perspective in the form of Theodule, and he's already made up his mind what he's going to do, surely it can't hurt to see what Cosette's dad has to say. It probably won't be much different from what he's already heard, after all. "Okay," he says. "If you're sure."

Cosette's dad smiles, calm as anything, and sits down in one of the dining chairs. It's a little too small for him, but he doesn't seem to mind. He just nods serenely at Enjolras, as if prompting him to talk, and when he doesn't, he starts the conversation himself.

"So, Enjolras. What are you feeling right now?"

Not exactly an easy question, Enjolras thinks. He shrugs. "Bad...?"

"All right. And can you elaborate more?"

Not really. Enjolras shakes his head. He honestly has no idea.

Cosette's dad isn't put off. He nods, as if this is a reasonable answer, and continues. "So, tell me about today. Were you feeling like this the whole time?"

"I guess. Maybe."

"All right. And did anything especially bad happen today?"

 _Yes_. But... Enjolras looks at the others to see how they're reacting to this. He can't exactly say what's on his mind right in front of them, especially when they're all looking so pained. He shrugs, not a no, but close enough.

Cosette's dad is sharp, though. He coughs, and holds up his hand. "I'm so sorry, Enjolras. Just one minute, please. Cosette, I realize I forgot my tea at home. Would you please go and get me some? And take the boys with you. Westwood is always so crowded on Thursdays."

Cosette is as sharp as her dad. She picks up her purse, and heads for the door. Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Grantaire, just a little slower on the uptake, linger for a second, until she comes over and bodily lifts them up. She's one of the strongest out of their whole group, and it shows.

"Come on," she says. Her tone leaves no room for disagreement.

"But..." Combeferre looks back and forth between her and Enjolras, eyebrows drawn together in distress. Cosette clicks her tongue.

"Now."

Slowly, it seems to dawn on the others what's going on, and they get up to go with barely another word. Combeferre squeezes Enjolras's hand, and Grantaire drops a kiss on his head, but other than that, they keep mostly to themselves as they follow Cosette out of the apartment.

Now alone, Mr. Fauchelevent smiles kindly at Enjolras, warm as a stained-glass window. "May I sit down next to you, son? This chair is a little small."

Enjolras nods, because he really doesn't mind, so Mr. Fauchelevent comes over and sits down beside him. The couch plummets under his weight. 

"Now," he says. "You were telling me about today?"

Enjolras tells him. The words stick in his throat a little, and sometimes he has to stop and remind himself to breathe deep, but Mr. Fauchelevent listens patiently, and doesn't interrupt him. When he's sure that he's done, he speaks.

"I'm so sorry. It sounds like you've been having an awful time."

Enjolras searches his face for any signs of sarcasm, but he seems genuinely sympathetic. It's weird.

"Thank you," he says, cringing at how awkward he sounds. Who says _thank you_ after something like that? "I don't mean to complain, though. I know it's not really a big deal."

"You're in pain. I think that's a big deal."

"It shouldn't be, though." 

Mr. Fauchelevent gives him a quizzical look. "Why not?"

"Because, because... I'm not really in a bad situation, you know? I'm just making up problems that aren't really so bad. And I don't deserve to be unhappy about it, or complain or anything, not when there are people with real problems out there."

"Real problems?"

"Yeah. There are so many horrible things going on. My own little trivial issues don't even register."

"Hmm." Mr. Fauchelevent doesn't speak for a second. Then, "You're unhealthy, physically and mentally. And, forgive me for putting it so bluntly, but you're planning to hurt yourself, perhaps fatally. Is this 'trivial' to you?"

That's an easy question. "Yes. Because it's me."

"What?"

"Because it's me. If it were anyone else, it would be a real problem. But it's just me, so it's not. I don't count, you see."

"You... You don't count."

"Right. I'm not really a person. I mean, I am, but I'm different, you know? I'm less."

"Enjolras..."

"I know, it sounds awful! You probably think I'm some weird presumptuous ubermensch now or something. But it's not like that. I'm just... How to put it? I'm not _deserving_. I'm an outlier. I want to help the world, but I’m not part of it.”

"I see." Mr. Fauchelevent looks down. Even so, Enjolras can see the pained look in his eyes. He wants to apologize, but before he can, there's a heavy hand on his shoulder, cutting him off. "Listen, Enjolras. I understand what you're saying, all too well. I've often felt the same as you."

"You have?" This doesn't seem possible. Mr. Fauchelevent is the definition of saintliness. Not only this, he's had one of the worst lives out of anyone Enjolras knows. If anyone deserves to complain- and to receive happiness and goodness in life- it's him. 

But, he just nods seriously. "Yes. After I got out of jail for the second time, I began wondering if I was really just a celestial mistake, a joke on the part of the cosmos."

"I wonder that, too," Enjolras blurts out. Mr. Fauchelevent nods again.

"It eats you up, doesn't it?"

"Do you still think that?" Enjolras wants to know. "Because it's not true, you know. You're so good, and you've done so much-"

"I've done harm as well as good," Mr. Fauchelevent reminds him gently. Enjolras shakes his head as vehemently as he can.

"That's okay! Because you know, your worth doesn't depend on what you do in the world. You're inherently valuable. And you have merit, just by existing."

"But you don't?"

This brings Enjolras up short. He tugs at a lock of hair, as if hoping it will get his brain going, but he remains fresh out of ideas. Damn it. He's supposed to be eloquent; why can't he think of a way to combat this?

Fortunately, Mr. Fauchelevent doesn't take advantage of his silence to be condescending. He's really such a saint. Instead, he coughs lightly. 

"I'm afraid we got a bit off-track. We were talking about your day. So, as I was saying, I'm so sorry that you've been feeling this way. Have you talked to your friends about it?"

Enjolras shakes his head. "I don't want to bother them. And I know what they think anyway."

"And that is, they resent you for being ill?"

"Yeah. I've been taking up so much time, and I'm not that much fun anyway, and I'm not worthy of their love. I'm just a deadweight loss, honestly."

"That's not what they told me. Your friend Courfeyrac was very explicit- he loves you a lot, and he wants to help you be as happy as possible. And Cosette loves you, too. As soon as she heard what was happening, she was all ready to come out and see you."

"They have to say that," Enjolras tells him. "They're good people, so they wouldn't want to say that they hate me. But they do." Suddenly, something occurs to him, and he sits up bolt-upright. "Oh no. I'm so sorry, sir. I didn't mean to imply anything bad about your daughter. I know Cosette is a lovely person, and I would never, I mean-"

"It's quite all right." Mr. Fauchelevent smiles at him. "I understand completely. I know you and Cosette are friends, and it's natural that you would be worried about her as well as the others. Please don't worry about singling her out or anything."

Enjolras sinks back against the couch, suddenly exhausted. This is all so much. He doesn't know what to think anymore.

"Can I ask you a question?" he says, because he needs to know and he might as well be up-front about it. "Please don't say anything just because you think it sounds good. Tell me the truth."

"Of course. You deserve truth, not platitudes."

This is exactly what Enjolras had been hoping to hear. He thinks he can trust Mr. Fauchelevent with this. "Okay. So, this might sound abrupt. But do you think I should die?" 

Mr. Fauchelevent frowns, and Enjolras belatedly remembers that he's an ordained minister. "I'm sorry," he says quickly. "I'm not trying to make you decide if I'm worthy of life or death or anything like that. I know that's uncomfortable for you. I just... I don't know. I want to do good for the world, and I think the only way I can do that is to die."

"Why do you think that?" Mr. Fauchelevent's voice is too slow and even. It sounds like he's biting his tongue. 

There's so much to say. Enjolras settles for a deprecating little not-laugh and shakes his head. "Why wouldn't I think that? I'm just a burden on everyone around me. My friends- they would be so much better off if I was gone. And my family definitely would, I know that for sure. I'm nothing but trouble, and I do more harm than good to the world, no matter how hard I try."

"Oh, Enjolras..."

"I'm close to being kicked out of the honors program, do you know that? I did really bad last quarter. I'm so stupid- I can't even do well at school, and that was all I had going for me."

"That's not..."

"And my friends, you say they want to help, but isn't that a problem, too? I'm just in their way. If I wasn't here, they could be happy. But I'm just a burden."

"You're not a burden."

"You can say that, because you don't know. But I am! Combeferre, he always has to put his life on hold to take care of me, and I shouldn't, I can't ask, but he does, and if I weren't here, he wouldn't have to. Don't you see? Theodule was right. I can't be in their lives anymore."

"But have you considered that maybe they want you in their lives?"

Enjolras scoffs. He'd thought Mr. Fauchelevent would know better than to say such a thing. "Really? You think they want me around?"

"Why not?"

"Because I'm me. I'm... God, I hate myself. I hate myself so much. If there's anyone on this earth who deserves to die, it's me."

Mr. Fauchelevent coughs. "I don't believe that, you know, that anyone deserves to die. And since we're talking about you in particular, I don't believe that you do."

Now it's Enjolras's turn. "Why not?"

"You answered that yourself, earlier. Everyone has inherent worth in this world, and you're no exception."

"But..."

"I know, I know. You don't believe that. But I do. I think- I know- that you don't have to pass some test to deserve your existence. The fact that you're human and _here_ , that's enough."

"Is this some _sanctity of life_ thing? Because that's a weak argument, and you know it."

"I don't think it's a weak argument." Mr. Fauchelevent sighs, though, and speaks even slower, as if he's struggling to get the words out in the right order. "I do believe in the sanctity of life. None of us gets to decide who lives and who dies- that's not within our jurisdiction. And you're human, no matter how disconnected you feel, so surely you must see logically (since you're a logical person) that you can't be separated from the rest of humanity."

"Sure. But that doesn't mean I feel it. Existential angst isn't logical, you know."

"No, I know it's not." Mr. Fauchelevent sighs again. "Listen, Enjolras. You don't have to believe me. But let me tell you, from the bottom of my heart, that you can do a lot more good for the world if you stay alive."

"I don't know. I can't see it."

"Okay. Then, let me ask you this. Do you want to die?"

Enjolras's first instinct is to immediately say yes, but for the sake of formality, he has to stop and think about it. It would be a disservice to Mr. Fauchelevent to offer him anything but a reasoned answer. So he thinks, trying to get to the bottom of the bottomless well in his mind.

"I don't know," he says finally. "I do, but I also feel like it's my duty. I mean, of course I don't want to suffer anymore, but also, I don't want anyone else to suffer because of my presence. So maybe it's both a want and an obligation for me."

"Hmm, I see." 

Enjolras is expecting Mr. Fauchelevent to be upset, maybe tell him that he's wrong, or otherwise try to invalidate his statement, but he doesn't. Instead, he folds his hands on his lap, almost primly.

"That's a good bit of insight. I think you're right- you want to do this more for the others than for yourself. However, I know for a fact that the others want you alive and _here_."

"Right. Because they totally don't hate me and want me out of their lives for good."

"They don't," says Mr. Fauchelevent mildly. Enjolras shakes his head.

"How would you know?"

"Because they've told me so."

"They could be lying."

"Why on earth would they do that?"

"Because they're good people. Because they feel guilty, because..." Enjolras doesn't want to hash this out again. He's so tired of arguing, of trying to prove his right to die. Isn't it enough that he's made up his mind to do the last, one good thing he can for the world? He draws his knees up in front of them and hugs them, keeping himself contained. "I know I'm right," he finishes.

In any other circumstances, Mr. Fauchelevent would look amused. He smiles slightly, and speaks as if he's humoring a particularly stubborn child. "And I know you're not. And so do your friends. So knowledge is rather up for debate, isn't it? A subjective reality, more than an objective one."

"I thought you were trying to make my existential angst better, not worse."

"Yes, I'm sorry." Mr. Fauchelevent's face returns to gravity once again. He pats Enjolras on the shoulder in a friendly sort of way, withdrawing his hand immediately when he startles at the touch. "Ah, I apologize."

"Not your fault," Enjolras mumbles. He hates that he's like this, that he can't handle even basic human interaction. It's not even that he doesn't like being touched; he knows some people have problems with physicality, and he understands that. But it's not like that for him. He likes contact with his friends just fine. Maybe too much- is it creepy for him to crave affection? Probably, he's just forcing his presence on them, like some kind of-

"Enjolras, it's okay." Mr. Fauchelevent's voice is gentle, but forceful enough to break through Enjolras's gathering thoughts. Enjolras looks up at him.

"Do you think I'm a predator?"

"What the- no. No! Why would you even think that?"

Enjolras can't help but be surprised at the change in his tone. He almost _cursed_ for fuck's sake. Either he really means it, or he's lying, and Enjolras isn't charitable enough towards himself to suspect anything but the latter. "You can tell me," he says, voice small.

"Oh, my dear. You poor boy." Mr. Fauchelevent's eyes are so full of pity and sympathetic pain that Enjolras has to look down again. He doesn't deserve this.

"I'm weird," he says, because he should admit it, should let Mr. Fauchelevent know all his faults. There's no way he'll be so sympathetic if he knows.

"Why are you weird?"

"I... I'm creepy! I want people to _touch_ me, not like 'that,' but like...affectionate. And I want their love, like in any form they feel comfortable showing it. But they hate me, and I hate me, and I'm just a burden to them, and I don't know, it's so weird. _I'm_ so weird."

"You think it's weird to crave affection?"

Enjolras stops. He doesn't, really. It's just, for him...

"No. It's me. I can't want it. You know?"

"But it's normal. You need love, just like everyone else, and again, like everyone else, you deserve it, too. I don't think there's anything wrong with that."

Enjolras shakes his head, deciding to revert to his previous subject. It's a little tricky to stay on-topic when he's this upset, because everything that could possibly be wrong with him keeps coming on up and out. But for the sake of things, he should try to keep on task, at least marginally. 

"You don't think I should die?" he asks. 

"I do not."

"Hmm." Enjolras puzzles over this for a minute, then pulls out his phone, which is miraculously still tucked into the tank top he's wearing under his sweater. "Okay! Will you ask them? They'll tell the truth if it's you."

"Ah. Ask them...what, exactly?"

"If I should die."

"Oh, Enjolras..."

"Please?"

Something in his face must be pathetic enough to be convincing, because Mr. Fauchelevent sighs and takes the phone. 

"Very well. What do you want me to ask?"

"Ask them if they hate me. No- they won't answer that. Ask them if they want me to die. No, no. Um... Okay, I leave it to your discretion. But make them be honest, please."

Mr. Fauchelevent still doesn't call. He holds the phone uncertainly, incongruously small in his big hands. "You do know- you shouldn't be basing your life on whether or not others want you around? You should recover for you, not for anyone else."

"Yes. Recovery comes from within, I know. I went to a literal hospital. But please, will you ask anyway?"

"It's not something I would ask," warns Mr. Fauchelevent. "They're going to know that you're behind it."

"But you're the one talking. They'll answer to you."

For a second, Enjolras isn't sure that Mr. Fauchelevent will do it. But finally, mercifully, he opens up the contacts list and dials Courfeyrac's number. The phone only rings for a second before Courfeyrac's panicked voice is on the line.

"Enjolras! Are you okay? What's happening?"

Mr. Fauchelevent winces and holds the phone away from his ear. Courfeyrac can be rather loud.

"Everything is fine," he says calmly, switching over to speakerphone so Enjolras can hear. "Enjolras is here, and he's fine. But this is Jean."

He's been asking them all to call him by his first name for months now, and none of them will do it. This doesn't stop him from trying, though.

"Mr. Fauchelevent?" Courfeyrac's voice muddles for a minute, as if he's holding the phone away from his ear, but Enjolras hears him say, "Cosette! It's your dad!"

There's a blurred, most likely anxious conference on the other end of the line, with the others talking amongst themselves, and Courfeyrac forgetting to put the phone back up to his ear. Eventually, though, it all settles down.

"Are you still there?"

The reverberations around Courfeyrac's voice suggest that he has the phone on speaker, too, probably sitting on a table with everyone crowded around it. How embarrassing. It'll save some time, though. Enjolras motions at Mr. Fauchelevent to continue. 

"I'm here," he says.

"Okay! Good! What's going on?"

"All right. Well, this might be a bit of a delicate question, but Enjolras wanted me to ask-"

Enjolras waves his hand at him desperately, but the damage is already done. There's a huff from Courfeyrac on the other side of the phone.

"Let me guess. He wants to know if we hate him, right?"

Enjolras flaps his hand again, but Mr. Fauchelevent gives him a quelling look, and he subsides. It's probably better this way, anyway, if the words don't come out of his own mouth. It's hard to sit by, though, especially since Mr. Fauchelevent doesn't seem to be treating the matter with much tact.

"As a matter of fact, yes," comes the graceless reply. "And, he would like to know if you think he should die."

There's a squawk of outrage from the other end of the line. "What the fuck? Are you kidding me?"

"No, he's very serious about it. Please tell me what you think, so I can relay it to him. And be entirely honest. I can't stress how important that is."

There's another little squabble, fraught with scraps of conversations and exclamations and _cannot fucking believe'_ s, but finally Courfeyrac comes back on, his voice uncharacteristically serious. 

"I would never say anything less than the truth, not about this. Enjolras is too important to me- and to all of us. We love him. Sure, it's hard, because we're not trained in this stuff, and we sometimes don't know what to do. And we're young, and we want to have fun, and I do admit it's hard to be worried all the time. But, and this is the important thing, we would never trade him for the world. He's very dear to us, and even if it's hard, we want to be here and do everything we can to support him, because he's more important than any amount of partying, or anything else. And you can tell him that. I know he probably won't believe it, but tell him anyway. Tell him over and over. He needs to know how loved he is."

Mr. Fauchelevent gives Enjolras a significant look. "Do you hear that?" he mouths.

Enjolras barely knows what he's doing. He grabs the phone out of Mr. Fauchelevent's hand, ignoring his half-hearted protests, and speaks into it desperately.

"Courfeyrac! Say that again!"

There's a sound of surprise on the other side of the phone. "Enjolras? You were here?"

"Yeah! But that's not important. Tell me again!"

"Um." Courfeyrac blusters for a second, getting his bearings. Then, "You're loved. We don't care how difficult things are, even though we admit we're not always the best, and sometimes we get stressed out or nervous, too. But we want to be by your side through all of it, and support you while you work to get better. Because we love you, and you're precious to us, and... fuck. Enjolras-"

He stops, very obviously crying now. After a short juncture, Cosette takes the phone.

"All three of them are sobbing their heads off here," she says dryly, although there's a quiver at the back of her voice, too, audible even over the tinny speakers. "I hope you take that to mean that they're all serious about what they're saying, because, well, that's what it means."

"I don't- is it? Aren't they just upset that I'm so annoying?"

"Oh lord, you silly little kitten. You're not annoying, and besides, do you think _Combeferre_ of all people would cry if someone was pissing him off?"

Enjolras thinks about it. She definitely has a point, but he still can't let go of his worries so easily. He looks at Mr. Fauchelevent, not daring to be hopeful.

"Is it true?"

Mr. Fauchelevent looks like he wants to say a lot of different things in response to this. His mouth twists almost imperceptibly, and his eyes get a misty, drizzly look in them, soft like a cold, gray morning. In the end, though, he just sighs.

"Yes," he says simply. 

Enjolras nods. He's not completely convinced, but he'll stop arguing for now. 

"Come back," he says. Despite the phrasing, it's a request, and one that he's sure is going to be denied. Mr. Fauchelevent smiles, not at him but at the floor, as if he approves and he doesn't think Enjolras can see. 

Cosette makes an affirming sort of noise into the phone, halfway between a hum and a sigh. "We'll be right there, Enjolras."

Mr. Fauchelevent takes the phone back and says some things before hanging up, but Enjolras doesn't pay any attention. He rests against the couch, too drained to move. It's true, he doesn't think he's going to do anything now, not tonight, but that doesn't mean he feels better, either. He still wants to die. No amount of kindness can change that. 

Still, he appreciates what they've all done for him, even if they hate him and secretly resent bearing this burden, so he doesn't say another word the entire night. He doesn't want to let anything bad slip out. The others seem puzzled, but they don't push. They just stay confusingly close, maybe just in case he decides to explain what's going on. After awhile, Grantaire picks him up and cuddles him, and it doesn't help that much, but it doesn't hurt, either. He stays like that, wrapped up in a love that's too nice for him, and somehow, slowly, the night passes on.

—

Enjolras doesn't go to class the next day. It's been awhile since he's skipped- usually, he'll drag himself to lecture from his death bed. But when he wakes in the morning, he's struck by such a strong wave of self-hatred that he can't do anything but lie under his mound of blankets, completely bowled over.

Even moving his eyes is almost too much work. He ends up staring off into a corner of the ceiling, watching idly as a spider builds its web and crawls around it, as if looking for neighbors. It's cute, but it also fills him with envy (ridiculous as it is) because here he is, unable to do as much as a common house spider. It's sad. He harangues himself for awhile with increasingly vitriolic language, but none of it does any good, and finally, he turns off his alarm and rolls over to go back to sleep. At least this way, he doesn't have to be conscious to deal with himself.

When he wakes, it's definitely past noon. He can already tell without checking his phone. Which, by the way, he really doesn't want to do, because if he has notifications, he'll have to either reply to them or ignore them, and both options are unthinkable, but... if he doesn't have any, that means everyone hates him, so that's bad, too. Everything is bad. There's no way out. 

However, he does want to read the news, and he can't check that unless he checks his phone. So he does, trying to ignore the message notifications that are indeed plastered across his screen. It's a little frightening- the news always does seem to be, these days- but somehow, it doesn't quite fill him with the righteous anger that he was expecting. Instead, he just feels numb. 

Well. That's it. He's officially the worst person in the entire world. He hadn't thought it would be possible to hate himself more than he already did, but now he does, and it's physically sickening. His chest is aching and his stomach is clenching and swirling and his head is running in circles, and there's a ringing in his ears that seems to get worse and worse by the minute, and- ah, not just the self-hatred. It's low blood pressure again.

That's wonderful. He can't do anything about it unless he gets up, because despite his best wishes, only regulating his body's ridiculous demands will cease the agony. While it's true that he wants to die, he doesn't necessarily want to _feel_ like he's dying, not if his life isn't in any actual danger. Besides, this is as good an excuse as any to force him out of bed. So he staffers to his feet, managing to support himself on the wall as he lists out of the room like the drunken man that he wishes he could be right now. From there, it's only a few impossible steps to the bathroom, where he somehow manages to brush his teeth and splash his face with water before collapsing on the tiles, too weak to move any more. 

Why is he like this? It's ridiculous. It's horrible. He's so proud of being able to control himself, to keep a tight rein on his entire being, but now, now that things are hard, he's lost the ability to even stay upright. He curls into a ball- that much movement is easy, at least- and huddles close to himself, trying to wait for the weakness to pass.

Courfeyrac finds him there, maybe a few hours later (he isn't sure) and carries him back to bed without a word. He brings a bottle of juice and leaves it on the desk, but he doesn't try to make him drink it, which is both a mercy and a failing. By now, Enjolras is so weak and so apathetic about every aspect of his existence that he doesn't think he could drink anything unless someone forced him to. But, it doesn't matter, because nothing matters, so he tucks himself back under his blankets and drifts away to the clouds once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me reiterate that I'm writing only from my own experience. if you ever find yourself in a situation like this, either for yourself or a loved one, PLEASE call a professional!!! it's very serious, and although this might not address it enough bc it's a venting lil fan fiction, I can't stress the importance enough.


	7. Chapter 7

Combeferre has taken to driving Enjolras to and from his therapy appointments, probably afraid that he'll run off by himself again. The worry's not unfounded, because left to himself, Enjolras thinks he probably would, and it's not that he doesn't appreciate it, but it makes him feel like such a child. If he could only drive, or at least take better care of himself, then he wouldn't have to be troubling Combeferre like this.

He's tried to get out of it. The first time, he claimed his appointment was canceled, and skipped the whole thing. And the next time, he'd pretended that he'd already had a ride. Combeferre hadn't fallen for that, so in all subsequent times, he's just protested so vociferously that Combeferre's eventually picked him up and strapped him into the car like a baby. Which, really, isn't the best situation for disproving his new status as the Household Child.

It also doesn't help that his therapy appointments are three times per week now. He doesn't want them to be, but Zéphine (who seems to have taken a deep interest in his life) had insisted, and before he'd known what was happening, everything was set up. And so, he's going. And Combeferre is taking him.

He likes the company. It's not like he doesn't. He just can't say anything about it, because the fact remains that he's not supposed to be keeping his friends in his life like this. So he talks as much as he can without saying anything, and Combeferre looks at him sadly and more sadly each day, but he doesn't give up. This is practically their only time together, now. Enjolras tries to isolate himself as much as possible, staying out of the house, or in his room, so when Combeferre has him in the car like this, it's the perfect opportunity for a chat.

Or, so Combeferre seems to think. He's driving slowly, taking surface streets, and obviously there's something on his mind. Finally, he sighs. 

"Enjolras, I wish I could make you see that you don't have to cut yourself out of our lives."

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why? We don't want you to leave us, that's why!" He reaches across the shifter and takes Enjolras's hand, just briefly, of course, because he's still on surface streets and needs to shift approximately every five seconds, but Enjolras feels a pulse run through his skin anyway. Aside from being bundled into the car, he hasn't really been touched in weeks.

"You're real," he says, before he can think better of it or stop himself. 

Combeferre frowns. "Yeah, I'm real. But are you feeling okay? Are you dissociating?"

"No. I'm not supposed to do that."

"That's not... that's not really how it works, you know."

"No. But I can't."

"Uh, okay."

Clearly, Combeferre doesn't know what to do with himself, and Enjolras would feel bad about it because he doesn't want him to be uncomfortable, but at the same time, he's hoping it will make him drop the subject. Maybe, just maybe–

"So, why do you feel like you're not allowed to dissociate?"

Darn it.

"I don't know. But I'm coming from the hospital. I have a literal therapist. Shouldn't I talk to him?"

"Well, yeah. But you could also talk about it to me."

"You're not my therapist, 'Ferre." The words sound harsh even as he says them, and he winces and looks down. "I'm sorry."

"No, you're right." Combeferre's voice is too slow and measured, like he's trying to maintain normalcy. "I'm not your therapist, and I don't want to be. I don't want to be anything more than your friend. But I just feel like right now I'm not even that."

Now that hurts. It's what Enjolras had been expecting, and what he'd wanted, because yes, he wants to take himself out of his friends' lives, but hearing it like this, hearing that Combeferre has accepted that, it's irrationally painful.

"Okay," he says, small. "That's better for you, then."

"No."

Combeferre sticks out his chin. He puts on the hazard lights, pulls over to the side of the road, and parks. Then, he sits and looks Enjolras right in the eyes.

"Listen, Enjolras. I think I misspoke. I am your friend. And I always will be, and I always want to be. Okay? But you're distancing yourself. That's why I said that. I feel like I'm getting further away from you."

"I'm... sorry?" That's the right answer, right? Combeferre isn't the type to assign blame, but there's a first time for everything. Enjolras looks at him piteously. "Don't hate me. I have to."

"Oh. Oh no, sweetheart."

Combeferre reaches for him, and Enjolras allows it for just a second, grasping at him desperately ( _don't leave me, don't hate me, please stay, please stay_ ), but he can't, he's not allowed, so he pulls away and huddles up into a ball on the seat.

"I'm sorry, you don't have to."

"I know. I want to."

"But I can't."

Combeferre studies him sadly. His eyes are so big behind his glasses. Finally, he sighs almost imperceptibly. "Okay."

It should be a relief. Enjolras knows it should be. But it isn't. Now Combeferre is finally going to leave him, forever.

"I love you," he chokes out, because these might be the last words Combeferre hears him say, or at least, the last meaningful close-close ones. Then, before Combeferre has a chance to reply, he unstraps himself and stumbles blindly out of the car.

He doesn't know where he's going, but it doesn't matter, because he can't move very far anyway. He's only gone a few yards before he has to stop and lean against the side of a building, too dizzy to stay upright. 

This is ridiculous. He has things to do and places to be. He shouldn't be letting this mere infirmity get in his way.

He can't move, though. It's too difficult. Everything's gone all fuzzy-edged, too, like it does when he's been crying too hard and his head is pounding. Is that happening now? He doesn't know. Sometimes, it's hard to tell.

When Combeferre comes to find him a little later, he's barely half-conscious. He lets himself be picked up and carried back to the car, not because he thinks he should be allowed to come home, but because he doesn't have the will to fight anymore right now. And when Combeferre tucks him into bed and sits with him until he falls asleep, he doesn't make a single word of protest. That's just more than he can do right now.

\--

Enjolras's next appointment comes much too soon. His last one hadn't been great, and he'd been hoping for a reprieve, somehow, maybe in the form of a specifically directed meteorite that would strike earth, killing him and no one else, but apparently the universe hates him too much for that.

He's not surprised.

Combeferre drives him to his appointment as always, and sits down in the waiting room with a book and a pen, ready to read and annotate and wait for Enjolras to come stumbling out of the lion's den so he can treat him too kindly and give him all the love he doesn't deserve.

"Go on," he says. "I'll be right here."

Enjolras mumbles something possibly encouraging and goes to check in at the front desk. He's really not feeling it today.

Before too long, Theodule comes out of the office and beckons him. "You ready?"

"Mm."

"Good. Come on."

Theodule leads him back into the main building, but instead of bringing him to his office as usual, he takes him to one of the conference rooms, slightly bigger, and equipped with more furniture. These are the rooms that are used for family meetings, and interventions and the like. Enjolras remembers coming here when he was first diagnosed.

"Why are we here?" he asks.

Theodule gives him a tight-lipped grin that's one part arrogant, one part challenging, and 100% smug. "We're going to be having some other people join us today- some of the psych interns are coming to observe."

What. No. Enjolras stops dead in his tracks and looks up, trying to summon the steely gaze that he used to be so good at.

"No, they can't. I don't consent. That's unethical."

"I think I know a bit more about what's ethical than you do," Theodule tells him, smirking. "And besides, you did consent. I have your signature right here." He holds up a sheaf of papers with altogether too much text, the hospital insignia, and oh yes, Enjolras's signature down at the bottom. "See? You signed. No take-backs now."

"But I don't remember-"

"Well, haven't you been having some issues with memory lately?"

"Yes, but-"

"Then, that explains it."

But it doesn't. Enjolras knows he didn't consent to this. Sure, he knows he can be a little ditzy, and maybe it _is_ hard to tell what's real sometimes. But this, at least, he knows. He never touched any such forms.

"When did I sign these?" he asks. "Was it today?"

"Oh, no." Theodule holds out the paper. "Here. Have a look."

Enjolras takes the paper in hand to look at it, and startles. This is _old_. It's dated ten months ago, from during his time in the hospital. That makes sense; he'd signed all sorts of things in there, and never asked for clarification, because he'd figured he'd be dead before it mattered. But now, here it is. And...

"How did you get ahold of this?"

"It's in your medical records. I have full access to those as your therapist. Don't forget, you're still under the same system as you were in inpatient."

Enjolras isn't likely to forget that, not anytime soon. "Isn't this too old, though?" he asks. "And besides, we're in therapy now. The interns never stayed for our therapy sessions in the hospital."

"Oh no?"

"No. They did OT with us, and sat in on the classes, and helped us with nutrition sometimes, but they never sat in on process groups."

"Well, this isn't a process group, is it?"

"No, but it's therapy, and it doesn't seem like they should come in. Isn't it confidential?"

"Oh, no. You see, you signed away your confidentiality."

That's not right. That _can't_ be right. Enjolras wants to protest, wants to run away and never look back, but then the door is opening, and three young med students are coming in to sit down, and he's paralyzed with nowhere to go. Theodule smiles that thin smile again.

"Sit down, Enjolras. We'll get started."

Enjolras has no choice. He's not used to saying no to any type of health professional, and he's too anxious and on-edge to start now. He carefully sets himself onto the couch beside Theodule (his mandated position for therapy) and folds his hands in his lap, looking at the floor.

"Okay."

"So." Theodule opens up his chart (he always uses it- Enjolras is pretty sure he does it just to make him uncomfortable) and makes a mark. "Enjolras, tell me. How have you been eating?"

_I haven't been_ , Enjolras wants to say, but that's not really the sort of thing he can tell Theodule. "It's been difficult," he says instead.

"Really. Tell me more."

"Um, well. I guess- I just can't. You know?"

"What have we told you about using the word _can't_?"

Enjolras looks down at his clasped hands. He wonders if he could get away with scratching at his skin here. Probably not.

"Fine. I feel like I can't. Is that better?"

"Hmm. And why do you feel this way?"

"I don't... I don't know."

"Really? So, you can't tell me what goes through your head when you think about eating?"

"Uh... It's bad?"

Theodule reaches across Enjolras and into his desk, and comes up with a bag of potato chips. He waves them under Enjolras's nose. "So, what if I told you that you had to eat this? What would you do?"

Enjolras's stomach lurches. He doesn't even like potato chips. "Please don't," he says.

"Please don't? I don't think so. I think you're going to eat this whole bag, right here. And we're going to watch."

There's no air in the room all of a sudden. Enjolras looks at the interns to see if they'll help him, but their faces are passive. Only one betrays even the slightest hint of emotion, but it doesn't seem like he's feeling any sympathy. On the contrary, he looks annoyed.

"Is it really such a big deal?" he asks. "You know, there's a lot of people who would love to be able to eat this stuff. And you’re a skinny, conventionally attractive little thing. You can do anything you want.”

Enjolras knows this is true. It plays on loop through his head countless times per day. But hearing it like this makes it real.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "Please, I really am. But I can't eat that. Please don't make me."

"Why?"

"Because- because-"

"Because you want to hold on to your privilege?"

Enjolras crumples like he's been punched in the solar plexus. He can't sit upright anymore, can barely breathe. This is confirmation of his worst fear.

"I'm sorry," he says again.

"But are you really?" asks Theodule. "After all, you don't seem to be trying very hard to get better."

"Hey," breaks in one of the other interns, a sweet-faced little redhead who reminds Enjolras of Jehan. "Sir, go easy on the poor thing. Can't you see how anxious you're making him?"

Enjolras turns in gratitude, but before he can say anything, Theodule speaks.

"Jeanne, that's enough. You're just an intern. Leave the talking to the professionals."

Jeanne frowns. "You let Jeremy speak."

"Jeremy was making good points."

"He was being dismissive!"

"Jeanne, if you can't be polite, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Enjolras wants to stop this from happening. He can't lose his only ally in the room.

"It's okay," he says.

Theodule smirks at him, content now that he's gotten what he wanted. "That's a good boy. Now, are you going to eat this?"

Enjolras knows what the right answer is, he does. But he can't say it. The words are stuck in his throat, just like the food would be. Mutely, he shakes his head.

"What?" Theodule scoots closer. Enjolras has to fight the urge to shy away. 

"I won't," he says.

"No-?"

"Stop!"

Theodule stops, probably out of pure shock. Jeanne has stood up, and is glaring at all of them. Her hair has come loose from its ponytail like a halo, her eyes are blazing, and her face is pale with wrath. She looks like a saint.

"You can't do this," she says. "It's unethical. It's wrong. If any of this got out, you'd be facing a malpractice suit in no time."

"Really?" Theodule smiles again, slimy this time. "Well. That's scary. But you know, that would depend on little Enjolras being willing to testify, and I don't know if he can." He slides his hand up and down Enjolras's arm. Enjolras shudders. "See? He's too _anxious_."

"I won't sit here and watch this," Jeanne says firmly. She grabs Enjolras's free hand in her own, and hauls him to his feet. "Come on. We're leaving."

"But I-"

"It's okay. Just come with me."

Enjolras doesn't question it any further. He follows Jeanne out of the conference room, and into the main waiting area, where Combeferre is sitting calmly on the couch and filling out a crossword. He looks up when the door opens, and stands in greeting.

"Oh, Enjolras, you're done early. How w-"

Enjolras runs to him. He can't seem to stop himself. "'Ferre," he says brokenly, and stops there, because he's not sure what else he can say without crying. Combeferre holds him tight and runs a hand over his hair.

"It's okay, hon. I'm here."

"You're with him?" Jeanne materializes, now holding a clipboard and a pen. Combeferre hums in assent. "Good. I need to talk to you."

"What is it? What happened?"

"Sit down," Jeanne says, and Combeferre does. Enjolras does, too, but he doesn't really pay attention to what they say. It must be bad, though, because before too long, Combeferre stands up.

"Where is he?"

"What?" Enjolras tries to get to his feet, fails, and contents himself with pulling on Combeferre's hand. "'Ferre, what are you going to do?"

"It's okay. Calm down, Enjolras. I'll be back soon, okay?"

Enjolras calms. He doesn't think he can stop Combeferre, not if he's in one of his stubborn moods. Once, he'd gotten into a fistfight with two men because they'd insulted Courfeyrac, and not even Bahorel had been able to pull him away. And sure, sometimes Enjolras can reason with him, but right now, he doesn't feel up to trying. He sits back and closes his eyes to wait.

Before too long (or maybe it is long; Enjolras couldn't say), Combeferre comes back out. His face is murderous. Enjolras isn't sure of the last time he saw him this upset.

"Something's wrong?" he hazards.

"Yeah." Combeferre strides over and lifts Enjolras to his feet. "Thanks," he says to Jeanne, who's apparently been here this whole time. Then, without another word, he guides Enjolras out of the building and into the parking lot.

He doesn't speak all the way home, just drives with his eyes fixed straight ahead on the road in front of him. Only the whiteness of his knuckles where he's gripping the steering wheel indicate how upset he is. For his part, Enjolras keeps to himself, too. He pulls his knees up in front of him on the seat, huddled up like a hamster. 

It's only when they've parked in their apartment's designated space  and headed upstairs that Combeferre breaks the silence. He puts a hand between Enjolras's shoulder blades and points him towards the couch.

"Can you sit?"

"'Kay."

Enjolras goes to the corner of the couch (somehow, the middle feels too open these days) and curls up against the edge. Once he's settled, Combeferre sits down beside him and takes his hand.

"Okay. So, I talked to Theodule. Do you want to know what he said?"

"Mhm."

"He told me that he doesn't act this way with any of his other patients, just you. Which is good, I guess, because that was all extremely unethical, but then I asked him why he treated you like that, and he said- he said..."

Combeferre swallows hard. Enjolras reaches up with his spare hand to pat him on the cheek. 

"It's okay, 'Ferre."

"Oh, you sweet little thing, you little angel, I..." Apparently overcome, Combeferre reaches for him and pulls him into his lap. He's holding on so tightly that Enjolras can feel him trembling.

"It's okay," he says again. "Don't worry, 'Ferre. It'll be okay. We'll make it all better."

Combeferre's breathing is harsh. He can't seem to say anything for a few minutes, but when he finally speaks, his voice is raw.

"I love you, Enjolras. I love you so much. And I'm so sorry that this happened to you."

"It's okay."

"No, it's not. You don't deserve this."

_Yeah. I deserve worse._ Enjolras shakes himself internally. He can't say that. "What did Theodule say?" he asks instead.

"He said... okay." Combeferre tangles his hand in Enjolras's hair, maybe trying to keep him present. "Listen," he says. "Whatever I tell you, it's not your fault, okay?"

"Mm." 

"No, really. I promise. You're not to blame for anything."

"'Kay. But tell me."

Combeferre sighs. "Okay. But I'm telling you it's not your fault, so please believe me. It's nothing you did at all. Um, okay. So, Theodule told me that he's been treating you so badly because he likes you."

Enjolras thinks he's missing something. That doesn't connect. "What do you mean?" he asks.

"It was bullshit. He said he... _likes_ you. He wants to sleep with you."

"What?"

"I told you, it was bullshit." Combeferre turns Enjolras around his lap so he can look him in the eyes. "Listen, what he did was unethical. I’ve never heard of anything like that, frankly. But he's never going to see you again. I'll make sure of that."

"But." Enjolras is still stuck. "If he, well. If he likes me, why was he so... not nice?"

"I don't know, honestly. Maybe it was his way of dealing with the shame."

Enjolras shakes his head. "He would never feel shame for anything."

"Then, I don't know."

Enjolras is quiet for a second, thinking about this. It hadn't been what he'd expected, but he's used to people wanting to sleep with him, and this is really not such a surprise. He leans up against Combeferre's chest, trying to drown out the swelling guilt.

"It's my fault."

"Oh god, I was afraid of this. No, sweetheart, it's not your fault. It's not your fault at all."

"No. It is. If I didn't look like this, then maybe he wouldn't want to... or maybe it's how I act. Am I too ditzy? Am I too much? It always happens. It must be something I did."

"Shh, shh. It's okay." Combeferre smooths his bangs away from his forehead, so comforting that it barely feels real. "I know you feel like you must have done something. But I promise, you didn't. This is not your fault."

"But it always happens, everyone always wants to-"

"You know that's out of your control."

"But if I didn't _look_ like this...!"

"I know, baby. I know."

Enjolras stops trying to fight the tears. He lets himself go, crying and hiccuping and sniffling like the worst kind of spoiled child. He hates that crying is so unflattering, really; it just adds insult to injury. Combeferre doesn't seem to mind, though. He stays still, but doesn't try to talk, only clucks and coos at him once in awhile.

Finally, when Enjolras stops crying enough to breathe semi-normally, he climbs off of Combeferre's lap and moves back to his corner of the couch. He can't force his presence on Combeferre; the poor man must be feeling so awkward now.

"It's okay," he says, not sure of what he's trying to say, really, but knowing he has to say something. He looks up at Combeferre pleadingly, willing him to understand. "It's okay?"

Combeferre opens his mouth, but instead of words, all that comes out is a sob. He opens his arms in invitation, though he doesn't make any move to come closer.

"Come back."

Enjolras wants to refuse. He really does. He wants to leave, turn away, leave Combeferre to his own life and not bother him with this depressing tragicomedy anymore. But he must be even weaker than he thought, because he finds himself climbing up and burying his face in the crook of Combeferre's neck, hiding from the world around him.

"Let me stay," he whispers. 

Combeferre tucks a stray curl behind his ear and kisses his forehead. His voice is so quiet and choked that it's barely intelligible, but whether through physical or emotional proximity, Enjolras picks up his simple reply anyway.

"I promise I will. Always."

—

“A malpractice suit?”

Courfeyrac shifts back and forth next to Enjolras. He keeps scratching his hand nervously through his hair. “Combeferre, you know I’m in immigration law, right?”

“Yeah, but you passed the bar, didn’t you? You have to know something.”

“I do, but, not to this extent. You don’t know how complicated it is to prepare a case, and then to actually carry it out. It could take a really long time.”

“So? It would be worth it to see that creep get what he deserves.”

“Okay, I don’t deny that, but… think about it. Think about the toll this would have on Enjolras.”

Abruptly, Combeferre turns to look at him. “Shit. Are you even okay with this?”

Enjolras shrugs. He’s not really sure where he is. Maybe his head’s up beyond the stars, or maybe he’s under ground, but wherever he is, it’s not here. Dreamily, he holds his hand out in front of his face.

“Do you see me?”

“Uh. Yes?”

“Is something wrong?” asks Cosette. She’s been hanging out with Courfeyrac a lot lately. Enjolras will probably have to give them– and Marius– the shovel talk at some point. It’s honestly a blessing, though, because she always makes Enjolras feel like he’s in a nest with the clouds.

“I don’t think I’m real,” he says. 

A few months ago, his friends would have started laughing, or maybe smacked him on the side of the head and told him to stop joking around. But now, they all peer at him in concern.

“You’re real,” Courfeyrac tells him. “Just as real as the rest of us.”

Unfortunately, that doesn’t really help. “You’re real?”

“Oops. Yeah, we’re real. Here.” Courfeyrac picks up one of Cosette’s legs and drapes it over Enjolras’s lap. The weight is nice; it makes him feel grounded. He’s still not really sure if this is real life or not, but it’s a little better now.

“Thank you,” he says, and then, when the others continue to look at him, “Carry on.”

“Uh. Okay. Well.” Combeferre coughs a couple times, as if to break the continuity. It seems to work, because the others come back to life.

“I think you’d be well within your rights to sue the hospital,” Cosette says. “What Theodule did went beyond unethical. The presence of unsigned parties in a confidential session alone is enough to get him in a lot of trouble.”

“And then there’s how he’s been behaving even in private sessions,” says Combeferre. The sharp indignation has mostly faded from his tone by now, but he’s still obviously angry. Enjolras can tell, even from whatever mystical, misty realm he’s in right now. He can’t really bring himself to worry, though. That’s too hard.

He leans up against Combeferre’s shoulder, barely listening as the others continue to talk. It’s hard to participate, or even be present, but they’re all here and arguing on his behalf, and it’s hard not to feel warm inside because of that. His friends really are the best.

Okay. So, maybe, if they’ll let him stay in their lives, he won’t try _too_ hard to leave.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do Not do what Montparnasse does okay  
> not very good

It's almost 1 in the morning. Enjolras is lying on the couch, trying to get the will to move to his room so he can be safely out of the way when Combeferre comes home and brings one of their friends with him, as he's wont to do. 

It's Saturday, which means everyone's out partying, and it's only a matter of time before someone (probably Marius) gets so drunk that Combeferre has to bring them home and take care of them. Enjolras had been invited, because his friends are really wonderful about trying to include him, but he'd claimed he'd had a headache (true), and his chest hurt (also true), and felt too sick to want to go (technically true, but misleading). The others hadn't been happy, but they'd accepted it, so now here is, lying in the exact same position he'd been in three hours ago, when Combeferre left.

It's ridiculous. He knows he needs to move. It's just, right now, he can't. Every muscle in his body feels like it's made of lead, or maybe it's his brain, but either way, he seems to be physically trapped right here. 

He should get up. He has to.

It's impossible.

Another minute passes, maybe an hour, full of nothing but circling thoughts, descending like carrion birds through his mind. Is that it? Is he dying? It would be about time. And yet (isn't hypocrisy a terrible and wonderful thing?) he doesn't want his mind to die. His body, yes. If he ceased to be, he knows the world would be better for it. But his mind is different. It's sacred. He can't force himself to accept its decay.

It's while he's pondering this, and flagellating himself for daring to think anything of the sort, that there's a knock on the door.

"Enjolras?"

Enjolras knows that voice. He's heard it often enough. But he's never heard it like this, so soft, so genuinely concerned. Maybe he's imagining things. Why else would _Montparnasse_ of all people be here to visit him, sounding like he's just gotten back from the hospital?

"I know you're in there."

Right. Enjolras hadn't responded. But that takes too much effort. He can't do anything right now. Maybe if he lies still and doesn't move (not a difficulty), Montparnasse will go away.

For a minute, it seems to work. There's no more noise from outside, no more strangely worried voice at the door. But Enjolras's possible-relief is short lived; with a soft creaking sound, the door opens, and Montparnasse glides into the room bearing a lock-pick set and a very large black leather bag.

"Hello," he says.

Enjolras mumbles at him. He doesn't have the energy to do anything else. He does sit up, though, or at least tries, pushing himself into a half-reclining position against the corner of the couch with his blanket draped over his lap.

Montparnasse doesn't seem at all deterred by this non-greeting. He comes over and sits down, putting the bag at his feet.

"I knew I would find you here," he says. "Bossuet was absolutely certain you'd gone out, but Combeferre said you were at home, and well. I trust Combeferre above everyone else. Especially half-bald idiots with no redeeming qualities but their lack of a moral compass."

Enjolras tries to make a sound of protest. "Don't say that."

"He made you cry."

How had Montparnasse heard about that? Enjolras will never cease to be surprised by how he knows everything.

"It's okay," he says. "I deserved it."

"The fuck how?"

"Because I'm me, I'm reprehensible, I'm..." No, that's enough. Enjolras can't put all this on Montparnasse, someone who probably doesn't even like him that much. It would be so rude. "Just. It's okay."

Montparnasse sinks gracefully onto the couch beside him. He smells like some kind of spicy perfume, probably something high-end and expensive. Enjolras turns towards it without thinking. Montparnasse smiles at him.

"Hi, kitten."

"I, uh." Enjolras fights the urge to play with the fringe on Montparnasse's jacket. That would _definitely_ be rude. "Um, why aren't you with the others?"

The smile slides off Montparnasse's face, replaced by a thoughtful, concerned expression that Enjolras has never seen before. He looks so much more human this way.

"I heard something," he says.

"What?"

"Never mind. But I thought I would come here and check on you."

Enjolras is too tired to be curious. He leans his head against the couch again. "I'm okay."

"Right. And where'd those scratches come from?"

Enjolras can't do this. He can't. He reaches up to scrub at his eyes, trying to clear his head, and of course it doesn't work, but it does cause Montparnasse to peer at him closer.

"You know," he says, after a rather uncomfortable pause, "I haven't looked at you properly for awhile. You look awful, Enjolras."

Well, that's confirmation all right. "I'm ugly?"

"No, you could never be ugly. I'd be jealous of you if I weren't so hot myself. But you look like you're dying. Like, you look like some kind of dying Romantic socialite from one of Jehan's novels."

"Why?"

Montparnasse touches his cheek, startlingly gentle. "Look at this," he says. "You're so pale. And here-" he skims a thumb under Enjolras's eye, brushing against his lower lashes, "You have such big shadows under your eyes. Do you ever sleep?"

"I guess."

"Hmm. But you're so thin. You look like a skeleton, actually. You poor thing, when's the last time you ate anything?"

"I don't know. You're just saying that. I'm fat-"

"No." Montparnasse's voice is powerful, closer to its usual dangerous register now. He doesn't look mad, though, just worried. "Enjolras, why on earth would you think you're fat? You're an icepick. Look."

He reaches out one elegant hand and wraps his long, shapely fingers around Enjolras's poorly-defined bicep. His hand goes all the way around easily.

"See?"

Enjolras shakes his head. "It's an illusion. And anyway, that's not the fattest part of me."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. If you saw my tummy..." Enjolras doesn't really want to show him his tummy. He's not sure why he brought it up, only he feels like he has to be honest and open about these things. Now he's not sure what to do, though. "Sorry," he says, because apologies are always a good bet when he's floundering for words.

Montparnasse tips his head, almost like Courfeyrac does when he's confused. "Why are you sorry?"

"Oh. Um, I'm not sure. But I am."

"Okay."

Montparnasse picks his bag off the floor. He sets it on his lap and roots around in it for a second (Enjolras catches a glimpse of a knife, a set of brass knuckles, and, for some reason, a truly hideous Christmas sweater) before pulling out a cellophane-wrapped brioche loaf from 85-Degrees. 

"Here we go!"

Enjolras eyes it with trepidation. "What is that?"

"Your dinner." Montparnasse ignores his horrified squeak of surprise, and starts unwrapping the bread. "Where's your microwave?"

Enjolras is too stunned to react, so Montparnasse shrugs and goes over to the kitchen by himself. He puts the bread on a plate and heats it up, goes to the fridge, and pours out a glass of milk. Then, because he's clearly just making himself at home here, he takes one of Courfeyrac's leftover dishes of adobo chicken out and starts helping himself to it liberally.

"This is good," he says between mouthfuls.

Enjolras isn't sure what to say. "I'm glad?" he ends up stuttering out, and mentally kicking himself, because _wow, really_.

Montparnasse doesn't seem to mind, though. He brings the now-heated brioche and milk over to the couch (along with the adobo chicken, which he doesn't seem to want to let go of) and sets it on the coffee table.

"Eat up," he trills.

"I don't want to, though."

"Okay." Montparnasse twists off a piece of bread and holds it up. "See? Just bread. It's fluffy." He holds it out expectantly. "Just try?"

It's so embarrassing. Enjolras is pretty sure he's blushing. He takes the bread and eats it, turning away so Montparnasse won't see him chowing down like some kind of longshoreman. 

"It's nice," he says once he's done swallowing, because Montparnasse went to all the trouble of getting it for him, and he may as well be polite.

Montparnasse beams, maybe for the first time in his life. He looks about five years younger. "You like it?"

"I don't know."

"Well, hey. That's a start." Montparnasse pulls off another piece. "Here. Eat some more."

"Mm-mm. I don't want to."

"Come on." Montparnasse puts the bread up to his mouth and holds it there until reluctantly, he opens up and eats it. Montparnasse smiles at him with surprising sweetness. "Good."

It's absolutely against all the principles in the literature. No psychologist would ever condone it. And yet, Enjolras finds it hard to mind. Now that he's accepted what's going on, he's going to roll with it, not happily, no, but at least without fighting too much.

As if sensing this, Montparnasse pulls off another bit of bread and holds it up to his mouth.

"Ready for more?"

"Mm."

Unenthusiastic though it is, it's agreement, so Montparnasse smiles his approval again and continues feeding Enjolras and giving him sips of milk to drink. He's patient about it, but unyielding. Before too long (though it feels like an eternity), they've gotten through about half the loaf and part of the cup of milk. Only then does he pause.

"How's that?"

"Okay, I guess."

"Then, can you eat some more?"

Enjolras purses his lips. "I'd rather not."

"How about in a bit, then?"

Now here's a tricky thing to explain. Although it might seem easier to break up meals into chunks, it's actually worse, and though Enjolras would be hard-pressed to explain why, it's a rule for him that everything has to be finished at one shot. Otherwise, he feels like he's overeating. He looks at Montparnasse, who's still holding up the plate of bread expectantly.

"No. I don't want to eat it, but if you're going to make me, make me do it now."

"Huh? Well, okay." Montparnasse twists off another chunk of bread. "Open up, then."

Years, centuries pass as Montparnasse feeds Enjolras the rest of his makeshift dinner. When he runs out of milk, time seems to stop altogether. But Montparnasse fetches him more, fortunately not too much, and continues helping as if nothing had happened.

"You're almost done," he says. "Just a little bit more."

It doesn't feel like a little bit. It feels like the biggest meal in history. But finally, impossibly, Enjolras finishes off the last crust and washes it down with the last few drops of milk in his cup. Exhausted, he leans back against the couch and closes his eyes.

"I ate so much."

"No, you didn't. It wasn't a lot at all."

"It was a whole bread!"

"An 85-Degrees bread. You know, usually people eat several of these."

Enjolras feels a shot of guilt in his tummy, heavier than even the most carb-rich pastry. "So I'm doing bad? I'm substandard?"

"Oh, sweet baby. I'm so sorry." Montparnasse scoots close enough to lift a hand and stroke his face. "Hey, it's okay. Can you look at me?"

Slowly (and somewhat unwillingly), Enjolras opens his eyes. Montparnasse is peering at him with tender concern, strange and unfitting on his sharp face.

"It's okay," he says. It sounds like he's trying to regulate his voice, maybe sound more like Jehan. Certainly, his vowels seem more open than usual. "Enjolras, precious little thing, you did so good. You weren't substandard in any way. And I know it was hard, but you did amazing, and I'm proud of you. Okay?"

This is weird. Enjolras has never known Montparnasse to act like this, not in all the time he's known him. Usually, he's the complete opposite, cavalier to the point of harshness, flippant, even self-absorbed. But this? This is inscrutable. Briefly, Enjolras wonders if he's hallucinating, only no, he can't be, because the weight of food in his stomach is all too real.

"Why are you helping me?" he asks. Maybe it's a trick. Maybe Montparnasse is planning to sell his story to some kind of sob-site and make bank off his suffering.

But Montparnasse just brushes a curl behind his ear, gentle as a butterfly.

"I know what you're going through," he says.

"What?"

"Yeah. A couple years ago, I was diagnosed with bulimia. I know it's not the same, not exactly, but it's close enough to make me want to keep an eye on you."

"You- what?" This is so hard to believe. Enjolras grips wildly at Montparnasse's hand. "How- How did you-"

He can't get the question out, but thankfully, Montparnasse seems to understand. He smiles again, totally calm.

"I went to an outpatient program. Babet drove me every single day, and Guelemer picked me up. And Claquesous and Eponine took me to therapy. They were the ones who helped me through it more than anything."

"So- so-"

"It took a long time. I can't deny that. And even now, I relapse sometimes. But I'm doing better. Good enough to take care of you for a little bit."

"But I couldn't ask you to... Not when you have your own problems. I can't-"

"It's okay. I know." Montparnasse opens up his arms, and he shouldn't look as inviting as he does, because he's a criminal and a con artist and who-knows-what else, but when he bends forward invitingly, Enjolras can't help but go to him. 

He snuggles up into his lap, settling down between his knees so he can be sheltered on all sides. Montparnasse is a little bony, definitely not as comfortable as Grantaire, and weirdly, very cold, but it's not bad at all. Anyway, Enjolras has a blanket, and if it weren't for the things his mind is doing, he'd be completely at peace.

Montparnasse pets him for awhile, murmuring vaguely encouraging things like "I'm proud of you," and "you're so good." He's not terribly skilled at it; there's an obvious lack of experience and knowledge holding him back. But he's _trying_ , and that's all anyone could ask for.

Enjolras goes into a sort of half-sleep as he sits there, soothed to a fitful sort of calm by the food and the kindness. He's still conscious enough to know what's going on around him, but not enough to want to engage with anything.

When the door opens, and Combeferre comes stumbling in, dragging what sounds like half the city behind him, Enjolras doesn't even stir. He just presses a little closer to Montparnasse, and _wishes_ at him. It must work, because Montparnasse holds him closer, running a hand up and down his back and whispering soft words into his hair.

"It's okay, it's just Combeferre and some of the others. They're fine, you're fine."

"Heyyyyy," comes the slurred caterwaul from the doorway, "Montparnasse, you're here? And Enj-enjsh-"

"Shut up, Courfeyrac. You're drunk." Montparnasse is glaring. Enjolras can hear it in his voice. He's probably making that face, the one that looks like he just swallowed half a pound of cut diamonds. 

Enjolras feels rather than sees Courfeyrac stumbling over to the couch and plomping down beside him. "I'm not drunk, _you're_ drunk," he mutters. He buries what's probably his face in Enjolras's hair and inhales loudly. "S' sweet."

"Shut the fuck up," snaps Montparnasse. "You're going to wake him up."

"I'm awake," Enjolras tries to say. He thinks it comes out as intelligible.

"Aww." Montparnasse shoves Courfeyrac off so he can raise Enjolras off his chest and look at him properly. "Hi there. Welcome back."

"Wasn't asleep."

"If you say so."

"Enjolras!" Having been quiet for three whole seconds, Courfeyrac now raises his voice to the high heavens in a puzzlingly melodious wail. "Hi, Enjolras! It's me, Courfeyrac! I'm a lil drunk, but I'm, I'm really..." here, he clumsily grabs for Enjolras, misses, and ends up holding onto Montparnasse instead. He doesn't seem to notice. "I love you, Enjolras! Did I tell you that? I love you!"

"And I hate you," Montparnasse informs him. "Get the fuck off me, assbagel."

"Montparnasse?" Courfeyrac looks genuinely shocked. He wobbles to his feet. "Montparnasse, where's Enjolras? I wanna tell him- gotta... I love him, you know? Like, not jus' that I would bang him if he asked, I mean I would-"

"Okay, Courfeyrac," cuts in Combeferre. "It's time for you to go to sleep, I think."

"Aww! But I wanna talk to Enjolras!"

"You can talk to him tomorrow."

"No, he might run away tomorrow. I gotta- now's the time."

Enjolras sits up, feeling immensely (and probably irrationally) guilty. Does he really run away that much? Well, recently, yes. He has. And apparently, it's been affecting his friends' perception of him. So now, he probably owes it to Courfeyrac to talk to him a little bit.

"It's okay," he says. "I'm here, Courfeyrac. What's wrong?"

Courfeyrac tumbles towards him again, arms outstretched. "Enjolras! Can I pick you up?"

"Uh- no. You're going to drop me. Sit down, and I'll sit on you. Okay?"

"You're so smart!"

Courfeyrac drops down on the couch. Once situated (he steals Enjolras's blanket, but Enjolras can't find it in his heart to complain), he opens his arms wide.

"Come here!"

"Kay. I'm here."

Enjolras climbs on him. He's fluffier than Montparnasse, all nice and puffy and soft like a muscular marshmallow man. Although he goes to the gym religiously, he's always been on the chubby side, and Enjolras loves it. He wraps his arms around the warmest part of his chest.

"Love you, Courfeyrac."

"Aww! Baby!" Courfeyrac nuzzles his hair (he gets much more cat-like when he's drunk), stopping only to sneeze when he inhales a few strands. "I love you, too," he says, once he's stopped sniffling. 

Enjolras is happy to stay here, he is. But he knows there's only so much time before Courfeyrac goes to sleep, so if he wants to have a chat, the time is now. 

"What did you want to tell me?" he asks.

Courfeyrac blusters for awhile. Enjolras is beginning to think it's disappeared into the alcoholic mist of his leftover revelry, but it's obvious when he remembers, because he howls and clutches Enjolras to him.

"Right! Why you- why don't you want to hang out with us? We're nice. And we like you."

The hole is starting to open up in Enjolras's chest again, the one that usually ends up being filled with tears. "I like you, too," he says. "I really do. I promise."

"But you never hang out with us!"

What's the best way to explain this to a drunk person? Enjolras taps Courfeyrac over the heart, as if he can fix himself in there that way.

"I like you," he says again. "But you see, I don't like me."

That's succinct. Enjolras is a little proud of himself for that one. And for a second, Courfeyrac seems to accept it. But then he shouts, right into Enjolras's ear. 

"No! We like you, and you like us. So you should hang out with us, okay. It's good for all of us!"

"But I don't want to drag you down. I'm boring, I know I am-"

"No! And we want you with us, anyway!"

"I know you heard what I said a couple weeks ago," Bossuet says, out of nowhere. Enjolras jerks around to stare at him, mostly in surprise, because he didn't even know he was in the room, but Bossuet must take it another, worse way, because he hurriedly goes on. "I never apologized for that. I never knew how. But I'm sorry."

"No-" Enjolras starts, because he really does understand, but Bossuet waves his hand.

"Wait, wait. It's true, it's a little hard, but I've realized these few weeks that even if you're not there, we're all worrying about you anyway. So we'd rather have you with us, just like Courfeyrac said."

Enjolras can't stop himself. He climbs off Courfeyrac's lap (ignoring his affronted squawk) and settles down on the floor. He's even more of a burden than he'd thought. This is awful. What can he possibly do to fix this?

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he repeats over and over, words running like the pattern in his head. It doesn't help, though, because none of the iterations are effective, so he has to say it just one more time, again and again. 

"Oh shit. I- shit. Fucked up. Fucked up."

Enjolras looks up through not-quite teary eyes. "Bossuet? What's wrong?"

"I upset you again."  Bossuet comes over, palms out. "I'm sorry. Can I touch you?"

Enjolras doesn't see why not, not if it's freely offered. He nods. Bossuet breathes as if in relief, and takes both of his hands.

"I'm sorry," he says. It's strange; he only says it once, but the meaning goes all the way through. Enjolras bows his head.

"It's okay. It's my fault."

"It's really not."

"Why?"

Enjolras really wants to know. It doesn't make sense. But Bossuet looks at him strangely enough to make invisible dust start dancing over his skin. 

"You asked _why_?"

"Yeah. I don't know. So I asked."

"Okay. So, I... okay, no, I don't know how to explain. Combeferre, can you help?"

"Yup." Combeferre comes over and settles down next to Bossuet. Even just his presence is reassuring. "Listen," he says. "We care about you so much that when you're hurting, we hurt, too. That's the same as you do for us, by the way. So don't feel guilty about it. And we want to be there for you, but sometimes we don't know how. And then we say silly things, or hurt you more by mistake. Which doesn't make it okay, not at all, but we're human, and we make mistakes. That doesn't mean we hate you, or think you're a burden, or want you out of our lives."

Enjolras thinks about it. The words can't help but ring true, especially since it's Combeferre saying them, but he's still unsure. 

"I don't want you to give up your lives, though. Not for me."

"We're not. We're there for you, yeah, and we love you _so much_ , please don't doubt that, but we're independent, too. You know we can't fix you; we can just support you while you heal."

"Like a tomato," mumbles Courfeyrac from the couch, which makes no sense, but Combeferre nods.

"Yes, exactly. You're the vine, and we're the trellis that you can lean on while you grow."

"Oh."

Enjolras lets go of Bossuet now, pausing to squeeze his hand so he doesn't take offense, and reaches for Combeferre. He wants to show his love and gratitude right now, and the quickest way is to offer a hug. Words would be much more thorough, of course, so that's forthcoming, once he's had a chance to think about it a little. But for now, he needs to cuddle.

"Thank you," he says. It's just above a whisper, but everyone seems to hear him anyway.

"So! You'll hang out with us now?" asks Courfeyrac hopefully.

Enjolras sniffles. Here come the tears. Oh well, it's amazing he made it this far.

"Yeah," he says. "Sometimes. If you want."

Courfeyrac tumbles off the couch and rolls right up to where Enjolras is. He clumsily throws his arms around him, babbling happily, and yup, he's crying too.

"I love you," he says. "Enjolras! I love you! And I'm so happy!"

Enjolras grabs his hand and clasps it tight. The hole in his chest is disappearing, fast. 

"Yeah," he says. "I am, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [this](https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-AD9QL1A8C_Y/T3QXImDGroI/AAAAAAAAG2w/0O3yjFuvQY0/s640/blogger-image-79510123.jpg) is the brioche that Enjolras eats. 85 Degrees is so cute~ it's like my favorite bread shop!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because even during the worst times, not everything's awful always.

Later that week, Cosette's dad invites Enjolras out to get coffee with him after work. It's oddly flattering. Enjolras doesn't want to be weird, and he doesn't want to try and work his way into anyone's affections when he doesn't belong there, but he genuinely respects and admires the man, and if he's willingly offering to spend time together, then he's hardly going to say no.

They meet up at the snooty cafe in Westwood that outlaws electronic devices, which Enjolras has never been to in his life, seeing as they _outlaw electronic devices_ and all, but he supposes Mr. Fauchelevent is the type of person who's staunchly ignored all the pressures of the digital age.

He's not wrong. Mr. Fauchelevent is there when he arrives, calmly sipping a mug of tea and reading what looks like a Russian novel. Enjolras awkwardly sinks into the chair across from him.

"Hi, Mr. Fauchelevent. I'm sorry I'm late."

"Oh, no. You're right on time." Mr. Fauchelevent holds up his pocketwatch (which Enjolras isn’t at all surprised to learn that he actually keeps in his pocket). "See? Five minutes early, in fact."

"Oh." Enjolras isn't exactly sure where to go from here. He ends up pointing haphazardly at Mr. Fauchelevent's book. "Is that Dostoevsky?"

"Indeed. You've read his works?"

"A couple. He's a good writer. Really cynical, though."

"Well, yes. A product of his era, I'm sure, but rather, shall we say... dismal. But he has some good things to say." Mr. Fauchelevent lays the book away now, and smiles. "Now, how are you, Enjolras?"

That's always the hardest question. Enjolras gives his best social smile and shrugs, then stands up before Mr. Fauchelevent can say anything else. "I'm going to get a drink," he says. "Be right back."

With this, he heads off towards the counter, hoping that the awkward question of his well-being will be forgotten by the time he returns.

Of course, he has no such luck. When he returns, latte in hand, Mr. Fauchelevent just smiles and picks up right where he left off.

"How are you?"

"Not... awful. Not good, either, but not the worst I've ever been."

"Oh, well I'm glad to hear that."

Enjolras is expecting Mr. Fauchelevent to start probing, asking personal questions and trying to get him to discuss his feelings, but strangely, miraculously, he doesn't. He merely takes a slow sip of tea.

"Let me ask you," he says finally. "What do you think of lavender?"

"Uh- what?"

"Lavender. The color, that is. You see, Cosette wants to repaint the living room, and she's chosen a lovely pastel color scheme. But I don't know if it would wear well."

"Oh." Enjolras considers it. "I guess, um- it doesn't seem like it would be any worse than white?"

"Hmm, do you think so? Well, I suppose that's true. Though I've always been one for darker colors, myself."

"Really? Even in your house?"

Mr. Fauchelevent laughs. "You sound like Cosette. I know it's not the traditional choice, but I've always been drawn to the aesthetic of a simple, dark room."

"I guess," says Enjolras skeptically. What an unusual preference. "I mean, simplicity is nice. But I like pretty colors. And bright things."

“Ah, yes?”

“Yeah. I feel like the more light there is, the happier I am.”

"Then, you would love the new installation at the Broad. Have you been yet?"

"No. Grantaire's been wanting to go, but it's so hard to get in there.”

"Ah, yes." Mr. Fauchelevent sighs, just a gentle, melancholic puff of air. “It’s unfortunate, but I feel like the world of art has become quite exclusive."

"It's always been exclusive," Enjolras blurts out. Mr. Fauchelevent raises an eyebrow.

"Tell me more."

Enjolras is more than happy to. It's something he's thought about a lot, especially now that he's started dating Grantaire. 

He starts off strong from the get-go, ranting and speechifying, and he might ramble a bit, but Mr. Fauchelevent listens kindly and patiently and doesn't interrupt, even when Enjolras gets off-topic for a few sentences. It's refreshing and wonderful; Enjolras hasn't made a good speech for awhile.

When he's done, Mr. Fauchelevent asks him thoughtful and pertinent questions, which turn into a reasoned discussion, which turns into a whole other conversation, and before Enjolras knows it, a few hours have passed. He only notices how late it's gotten when his phone starts buzzing as Grantaire and Eponine take turns sending him memes, and he sees the time.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't realize it was so late. I kept you here way too long."

"Not at all. I wanted to stay and talk with you." Mr. Fauchelevent smiles reassuringly, and gets up to help him with his coat. "We must continue our discussion some other time."

"I'd like that," Enjolras tells him, a little shy. He doesn't want to push himself on anyone, and he doesn't want to bother this noble, kindhearted man, but if he's going to offer, then there's no reason not to accept.

Of course, he's probably just saying that. But still.

Enjolras declines Mr. Fauchelevent's offer of a ride, and opts instead to walk back by himself. It's not that late yet, and he's pretty sure he'll be fine. Besides, he has a lot to think about.

Why exactly is he so happy? This evening wasn't anything special, just coffee and normal conversation, but- oh. That's it. Mr. Fauchelevent made this whole thing _normal_. He didn't try and get Enjolras to talk about feelings, or treat him with that soft-special consideration that's always so uncomfortable. No, he was just _there_. It's weird that this would mean so much, but there it is. 

Enjolras will have to thank him again as soon as possible.

\--

When Enjolras gets home, Grantaire is there, chatting happily with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. They all wave at him when he comes in, beckoning him over to the couch.

"Enjolras! Come join us!"

Enjolras takes off his shoes and coat and goes to the couch. It's a sign of how much better he feels after his talk with Mr. Fauchelevent that he doesn't hesitate at all, just climbs onto Grantaire's lap and leans up against him.

"Hi," he says.

Grantaire kisses his forehead. "Hi, babydoll."

"So, Enjolras," says Courfeyrac, and he's got that purposeful tone to his voice that's _never_ a good sign, "tell me, don't you think it's good and important for friends to engage in bonding activities?"

"Um- yes?"

"And don't you think it's important to step outside our comfort zones once in awhile?"

Oh no. "Courfeyrac, what are you planning?"

Courfeyrac smiles brightly at him. "I think we should go to an orgy!"

For a second, this fails to compute. Enjolras sits there in blank shock, staring. Grantaire pokes at him.

"You good?"

"Uh."

"It would be cool," Courfeyrac says. "Think about it! We could all become so much closer after that."

"Yeah, but we could also not," Grantaire tells him. "I mean, I love you, man, but I don't really wanna do the deed with you."

"Well, you don't have to. You could do it with Enjolras. And we could watch."

"I... don't think I really want that, either."

"How many people would be in this orgy?" asks Combeferre. Courfeyrac shrugs.

"You know. A good number."

"Which is, what. All our friends? Our coworkers? _All your past sexual partners_?"

"Hey, don't judge me."

Finally, Enjolras finds his voice. "Courfeyrac, why?" Everyone looks at him and he blushes, not for any real reason, but it adds to the awkwardness of the whole situation, so it's fitting. "This is so sudden. Why do you want to have an orgy now?"

"Okay, well between you'n me, I've wanted to have one for awhile now. But the time never seemed right, you know? But now..."

"What?" Enjolras reaches for him, seizing hold of one wildly-gesticulating hand. "Courfeyrac! Is this about Marius and Cosette?"

"Hey-what?"

"Because you like them and all! Do you want to have an orgy so you can have an excuse to do the sex with them?"

"Wh-what," sputters Courfeyrac. "No, I- who on earth says _do the sex_ anyway, Enjolras? That's not right!"

"No, I think he's got a point," says Grantaire. "I can't believe I didn't think of this before. Is this true?"

"N-no!"

"Of course it's true," interposes Combeferre. "I didn't want to say anything, but since Enjolras brought it up, I guess we can talk about it."

"No, we can't," says Courfeyrac, but the others ignore him.

"You three do seem compatible," says Grantaire. "I mean, Marius is kinda hapless, and Cosette is brilliant and competent, and you're sort of in between. So it would be a good trio, ya know?"

"Mm, quite." Combeferre puts his hands on either side of Courfeyrac's head and squeezes slightly. Courfeyrac tries (unsuccessfully) to bat him away.

"What are you doing, you weirdo?"

"I'm listening to the frequency of your brainwaves."

"Oh my god, stop."

"You say _stop_ , but your brainwaves are crying out for romantic advice. What's the truth here, Courfeyrac?"

"There's no truth!"

"Well that's a highly nihilistic point of view."

Grantaire puts his own hands up now. He leaves a smudge of something green and acrylic on Courfeyrac's nose. "No, the truth is out there. Let me offer a second opinion."

Courfeyrac tries to wiggle away, laughing and cringing in equal measure. "Enjolras, help!"

"Well, since you asked." Enjolras stretches up and puts his hands on Courfeyrac's head, too. "Come on, guys! Let's get to the truth!"

Of course, being the group that they are, the truth ends up involving a lot of giggling and cuddling and piling up on the couch (which is really too small, considering the amount of people who sit on it each day).

Eventually, once things have calmed down a bit, Courfeyrac raises his head from where he's laid it in Enjolras's lap and having his hair patted.

"You're not wrong, you know."

"I'm never wrong," Enjolras says mock-seriously, and this is one of the most incorrect statements he's made all week, but it makes the others laugh. Courfeyrac wrinkles his nose.

"I know. That's really true. But in specific, with my Cosette and Marius problem."

“Oh? How is it a problem?"

"Because, you're right. I like them."

"Oh! He said it!" Combeferre squeezes Enjolras's hand excitedly. "Enjolras! Did you hear? He said it!"

"Yeah, he said it!" adds Grantaire, lacking a hand and squeezing Enjolras around the middle instead. Enjolras can't help laughing a little, out of happiness.

"I'm really excited for you. All of you. This is so sweet."

"You guys aren't listening," groans Courfeyrac. "I have a problem, you know?"

"But why is it a problem?"

"Because I like them! And I don't know if even one of them likes me back, let alone both!"

"But who wouldn't like you?" Enjolras looks at Combeferre and Grantaire for support. "Right? He's so likable!"

Combeferre nods. "He's right. You do have a charming way about you."

"And don't think I haven't seen Cosette checking out your ass," adds Grantaire slyly.

Courfeyrac preens and puffs up and looks immensely pleased. "Really?"

"Yeah. I don't know about Marius, but really... who does?"

"True, true. So, you think I should tell them?"

"If you want. I mean, it's your decision."

Enjolras smiles his agreement, a real smile for once. "Yeah! Don't worry, Courfeyrac. I'm sure it will go well."

"Aww. Thanks, guys." Courfeyrac kisses them all, fist-bumps Combeferre and Grantaire, and (for whatever reason) nuzzles Enjolras's hair. "I'm going to go plan this out. Send me good vibes."

"We will," says Combeferre, and "Good luck," Grantaire adds, slapping him on the butt for good measure. Enjolras just waves at him. 

"Do your best!"

Courfeyrac skips off to his room and closes the door. He's probably about to write a couple of overly-dramatic blog posts, and some frankly terrible poetry before lying on the floor and gazing up at the ceiling in his best melancholy way. He's so cute. Enjolras wouldn't trade him for anyone else in the world.

Now deprived of the liveliest member of their little party, Combeferre starts eyeing his books longingly, and Grantaire begins to make noise about going home.

"It's getting late," he says. "I should head out so I don't keep you guys any longer."

Enjolras tugs at his shirt. He doesn't want to impose, but he also really wants to go back with him, and he's not sure of how to put it into words, but he does know how to do some pretty good puppy-dog eyes when he wants to. They're a universal form of communication.

Sure enough, Grantaire smiles down at him. "You wanna come back with me?"

"Yeah. I mean, if that's okay."

"Of course. I always want you."

Enjolras isn't completely convinced, because even he doesn't always want himself (or even ever, really), so who else possibly would? He definitely doesn't want to miss out on a chance for Grantaire's company, though, so he gets up and puts on his shoes.

"I'll be back tomorrow," he says to Combeferre, who is already digging through his pile of books with a wildly ecstatic look on his face. Even so, he's not too distracted to look up and nod.

"Okay. Be safe. Call me if you need anything."

"'Kay. Thank you, 'Ferre."

"Mmf."

He's obviously in another world already, so there's no use in saying anything else to him. Enjolras looks up and smiles.

"Ready to go?"

Grantaire smiles back, eyes soft and warm. "Yeah."

They leave together, and walk down to the car hand-in-hand. It's a little nippy outside, but Enjolras barely notices, tucked up as he is against Grantaire's side. Who needs a space heater anyway? A boyfriend will do just fine.

It doesn't take too long to drive to Grantaire's apartment, despite the hordes of drunken students running across the streets. Today's Thursday, and obviously, there's a lot of people pregaming. Enjolras almost wants to join them, but that's a lot of trouble, and anyway, he's not having issues with feeling real right now, especially with Grantaire's hand as a warm and reassuring pressure on his thigh. He has to move it to shift, but he comes back afterwards each time.

When they arrive, Grantaire parks and comes around to open Enjolras's door for him. He's so solicitous sometimes. He helps him out of the car, and is about to take his hand to lead him upstairs, but then an expression of uncertainty flashes on his face, only for a split second, it's true, but Enjolras catches it anyway.

"What's wrong?"

"It's nothing. Or, I mean, I just forgot the elevator was broken."

Enjolras feels his stomach get cold. There's no way he's going to be strong enough to walk up the eight flights of stairs to Grantaire's apartment. He'll probably faint and fall back down or something, like some kind of defective bowling ball. Why does he have to be so useless all the time?

Fortunately, though, Grantaire must see the sudden drop in his mood, because he smiles reassuringly and scoops him up and carries him like a doll all the way to the front door. By the time they get there, Enjolras is warm once again.

"Was that okay?" Grantaire asks, setting him down to take out his keys. He's not looking up, but his voice is genuinely concerned. Enjolras squeezes his wrist.

"Of course. It was nice."

"Oh, good. I'm glad."

They lose no time in getting inside and settling in after that. Grantaire helps Enjolras take off his coat, then sits him down and offers him a drink, because he knows by now that an offer of food would be declined as quickly as it's made. 

"I can make you hot milk or something. Or some juice?"

"Milk, please. With vanilla. And Kahlua, if you have it."

"Of course I do. Who do you think I am?"

Enjolras just smiles at this. He knows Grantaire is doing better with his drinking lately, though he still has enough alcohol in his apartment at any given time to run a small economy for weeks. It's nice that he's comfortable enough to joke around like this, even if it's not exactly socially acceptable in most circles. But that's how it is for neurodivergent people- joking is coping, and coping is getting by.

Soon, Grantaire brings Enjolras his mug of milk, complete with vanilla, and yes, a splash of Kahlua to make it all the more tasty. Enjolras sniffs at it appreciatively before taking a sip.

"It's nice."

"I'm glad. I'll use Bailey's next time, see if you like that."

"Hmm, sounds indulgent." Enjolras flaps his hand in Grantaire's direction, beckoning him. “Come here, sit with me. Warm me up."

"Aww, are you cold?" Grantaire settles down next to Enjolras and wraps his arms around him, careful not to disturb the cup in his hands. He slides a large, rough hand up and down Enjolras's back, rubbing his shoulder blades through the thin material of his shirt. It's so nice, Enjolras has to purr in contentment and settle in to lay his head against Grantaire's shoulder. The position isn't the best for drinking, but Enjolras manages it anyway, licking up his milk kitten-style, until finally, he can set aside the cup and devote his entire attention to curling into Grantaire's warmth. 

"Thank you," he says. 

"No need to thank me, love. I couldn't be happier."

"But I want to thank you, though. You're the one who made me happy."

Grantaire drops a tender kiss on his forehead, almost too light to feel. Enjolras can tell he's smiling, though. "You're the sweetest little thing. I love you so much."

"I love you, too," Enjolras mumbles. He's getting a little sleepy, maybe because of the milk, although it's true, it's been awhile since he's had a decent night's rest, so that could definitely have something to do with it as well. He tries to shift into Grantaire's lap. "Take me to bed."

"Hmm? You just want to sleep, or..."

"No." Finally, Enjolras manages to wiggle in between Grantaire's legs, right where he wanted to be from the start. He puts a hand up to wrap around his shoulders. "I mean I do, but... no. Take care of me."

Grantaire always goes bright red when Enjolras outright (and not-outright) propositions him, and now is no exception. He blinks unsteadily for a second, looking shocked, though far from unwilling.

"Are you sure? You seem tired."

"Not that tired. Or at least, not yet."

Grantaire doesn't seem to have a witty reply to this. He leans down and brushes a sugarplum kiss across Enjolras's top lip, light as anything, but lingering, too.

"Okay."

"I love you."

Grantaire picks him up, so easily that it would be embarrassing if it weren't so hot. He presses his face into the top of Enjolras's curls.

"I love you too, precious. I love you so much. And I'm glad you're here. I'll take care of you really good, so don't worry."

"Mm. I'm not." Enjolras lifts his head to nuzzle against Grantaire's facial hair. He likes the buzzing feeling of stubble against his skin. Grantaire smiles at this- he always thinks Enjolras's kittycat habits are adorable- then without further ado, walks them off to the bedroom to make good on his promise.

Sometimes, Enjolras is tetchy about getting undressed, much less getting undressed in front of someone he loves so much, but tonight, he smiles when Grantaire sets him on the edge of the bed and plays with the hem of his shirt.

"Is this okay?"

"Definitely."

Grantaire slowly undresses him, careful and delicate as if he's unwrapping some priceless objet d'art. Although he's always sort of like this, right now he's even more hesitant than usual, so Enjolras shifts uncertainly under his hands.

"Are you okay? Is this all right?"

"Of course." Grantaire brushes a kiss across his collarbone, and for a second, he seems to have collected himself, but once he has Enjolras unclothed in front of him, he full-on stops.

"Oh, sweetheart-"

Enjolras feels a jolt of panic through his chest. "What's wrong? Am I ugly? I'm sorry, I know- I ate today, so I know I look a little-"

No, he can't say that. He's not allowed to call himself fat in front of other people. Unsure of how to proceed, he backs up against the edge of the bed and pulls his legs up against himself so Grantaire won't have to look at all of him anymore.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles.

"No, no. You don't have to be sorry. You don't even have anything to be sorry for." Grantaire comes up close to him, but doesn't touch, just hovers above him looking worried. "Is this okay? Can I touch you?"

"Are you okay with that? I mean... am I gross?"

"No. You're the opposite of gross. Here." Grantaire holds out a hand, and he looks genuine about it, so Enjolras grabs it and presses it to his lips.

"Don't lie to me," he says. "If I'm ugly, or disgusting, or if you don't want to look at me or be near me for any other reason, please tell me, please don't..."

"That's not it. I promise, darling. You're beautiful. I always want to look at you and be near you, and I always want to touch you when you're okay with it."

"But..."

"Can I?"

Enjolras is still panicking, but he truly does trust Grantaire, so after a brief internal pep-talk, he unballs himself and allows Grantaire to crawl in between his legs. Now, they're right up against each other, close enough that Enjolras is pretty sure Grantaire can hear his heart beating.

"Here I am," he says, completely unnecessarily.

"Here you are." Grantaire's voice is reverent, loving, dripping with adoration. He traces his thumb across Enjolras's lips, and Enjolras wants to open his mouth and see if Grantaire will slip it inside, but he doesn't get a chance to, because then Grantaire is pressed against him, kissing him hard.

He kisses like he's trying to prove a point, which, maybe he is. That's usually the case. It’s bold and demanding and really, _really_ hot, much more forceful than usual. Sadly, it’s also rather short-lived. After a not-very-long while, Grantaire pulls away, smiling slightly when Enjolras pouts at him and tries to chase his mouth. He rests his forehead up against Enjolras's, looming over him protectively.

"You're beautiful."

"You're just saying that. _Look_ at me."

"Believe me, I'm looking."

"Well? I'm so hideous; I hate everything about myself. And I'm gross. Don't you think so?"

"No, I really don't." Grantaire takes his head away so he can look directly at Enjolras. His eyes are serious. "You know I've always been incredibly attracted to you. Or, I guess you didn't always know that. But you found out. Anyway, it's true. I've always thought you were pretty much the most beautiful being in this world- maybe the next, too. You're an angel. There aren't words enough to describe you, because none of them come close enough. Art wouldn't, either. You're just too radiant."

"But I'm..."

"Shh, wait." 

Grantaire puts a finger over Enjolras's mouth, teasing enough that it's clear he's not outright dismissing him. If Enjolras truly wanted to go on, Grantaire wouldn't interrupt him. But Enjolras finds that he's curious- it can't hurt to hear what Grantaire will come up with, right? He cants his head.

"I don't know if you believe me or not," Grantaire tells him, exactly as soon as he's given permission. "But I'll tell you every day if you need to hear it, because it's important. You're not ugly or gross or anything else. You're beautiful. Okay?"

"Mm."

"No, really." Grantaire cups his face and tilts it up, stealing a kiss along the way. He's so smooth about it, probably because he has to do this all the time just to help Enjolras maintain eye contact. Enjolras clings to his free hand.

"But why did you- you hesitated when you saw me..."

"Oh, no. I'm sorry, angel. It wasn't what you're thinking. I don't know if I'm supposed to say this or not, so if not, I'm sorry in advance. But. You're so _thin_. I haven't looked at you properly for awhile, and I just... I was shocked, that's all."

Enjolras truly doesn't know what to say to this. He blinks a few times. 

"I'm thin?"

"Yeah. I mean, you've always been thin. But now you look... frail. Sick. I can count your ribs, for goodness's sake."

"Is that not normal?"

"Uh- no. It's not just that, though. It's everything. You're so fragile- you look like you're about to break."

"I won't break," Enjolras assures him. But that's not convincing, or at least not by itself. There's more. "You don't have to worry about hurting me, you know."

Now _that_ gets to the point. Grantaire doesn't seem capable of replying. It's been a worry of his all along; he'd touched Enjolras like he was made of glass for the first few weeks they'd been together. Enjolras supposes it's at least understandable. Grantaire is substantially bigger than he is, and much more solid and _rough_. Sometimes, strangers shoot them worried glances when they go out in public together. And since Grantaire is such a (secretly) gentle person, it makes sense for him to fear harming the people closest to him. But Enjolras doesn't think much of this fear. He knows he's safe, and since he barely ever feels safe, this is something special.

"Don't worry," he says. "You're not going to break me."

"Okay, you say that, but how can I be sure?" Grantaire is rubbing soft little circles over Enjolras's cheekbone with his thumb, almost absent-minded in his agitation. He leans in again to press their heads together, bunny-style. "I don't want to hurt you," he whispers.

"But you won't. I'm not so delicate as all that."

"I... no, okay. I know. I don't want to coddle you. You deserve more than that. It's just, I'm scared. I'm scared to lose you."

"You think you'll lose me by having sex with me?"

"No, not that. I don't know. I'm just afraid of being rough with you in any way, because you're already fading away, and I feel like if I touch you wrong, you'll snap right in half."

"You're really not rough, though," Enjolras points out. "I'm always the one telling you to go harder with me. I'm telling you, whatever you do, I can take it."

"But I don't know if _I_ can!"

Enjolras's reply dies on his lips. Grantaire looks truly upset, red-rimmed eyes, shaking lip, everything. He must be more rattled by this than he's ever let on. Enjolras reaches up to twirl his fingers in his dark curls. 

"Hey, hey. It's okay. We don't have to do anything."

"But you want to, I shouldn't-"

"There's more important things than me getting a nut," Enjolras tells him dryly. "Come on, it's okay. We can just cuddle."

Almost gratefully, Grantaire moves away so Enjolras can slip under the covers. He's about to come in, too, but Enjolras tugs at his shirt. 

"Are you really going to leave me alone in my nakedness here?"

This gets a bit of a laugh. Grantaire pulls off his shirt and pants and crawls under the covers, curling his body around Enjolras. With their heads on the same pillow, skin-on-skin, and breath mingling, Enjolras feels grounded. It's a different feeling than he has during sex, but no less wonderful for that. Intimacy comes in lots of different flavors, and no matter what form it takes, it's always nice.

Grantaire starts drawing patterns against Enjolras's skin, seemingly at random, but Enjolras notices that he's careful to stay away from the boniest places. It's a little nice, definitely. Enjolras has been with people who have fetishized his skeletal appearance, paid closer attention to his protruding bones than they had to his erogenous areas (not that they ever cared about those much in the first place). But he's also a little sad that Grantaire is trying to be so careful with him. Is he really that fragile? Incapable of having a normal relationship, a normal _life_? 

Well, that will be it, then. He'll do something awful, and Grantaire will hate him, and leave, never to return. And that will be better, it _will_ , but it hurts so much to think about. Enjolras can't stop turning it over in his head, thinking and overthinking everything bad.

"Please stay," he whispers into Grantaire's shoulder after a few minutes of this. Grantaire hums and kisses his forehead.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"I'm not good enough, though," Enjolras says. He's sort of contradicting himself, but Grantaire is a king of contradictions if there ever was one, so he'll probably understand.

Sure enough, he lays another soft kiss onto Enjolras's hair. "Hmm? Why do you say that, love?"

"I'm so... you know. I'm me. I know I'm supposed to be conventionally attractive, but I believe from the bottom of my heart that I'm ugly. And- I'm stupid, you know, and not fun, and not a good person, even- I don't have any redeeming qualities. I don't know why you would love me."

"I have so many reasons," Grantaire says, and then, half-teasingly, "Should I start at the top?"

"No, no. You don't have to. I didn't mean to make it sound like I was fishing, or anything. I just- I don't know. I'm sorry. Ignore me."

"I won't ignore you, precious. Please don't think I would." He nudges Enjolras, and then nudges him again. "Hey, look at me. It's okay."

Enjolras drags his eyes up. It's difficult, because even now, when things aren't as bad as they've been for awhile, eye contact is hard. But he's glad he looks, because Grantaire's eyes are so genuinely soft and loving that they can't help but be convincing. 

"I truly do love you," Grantaire tells him. "I know you said I didn't have to make a list of reasons, but I want to anyway. You deserve it. So even though this won't be even a fraction of the reasons, get comfy, because I'm going to start talking a lot."

Enjolras nestles closer to his side, head angled for optimal listening. He still wants to stop Grantaire, because he feels bad about eliciting this type of troublesome response, but he also knows that it's Grantaire- nothing will stop him from going off once he's made up his mind, so there's really nothing to do but settle up and listen in. 

And when Grantaire does start going off, listing everything from Enjolras's intelligence, to his passion, to his (apparent) sweetness, Enjolras can't help but be grateful. He doesn't believe all these things about himself, and he still doesn't think he's good enough for Grantaire (or for anyone or any _thing_ , for that matter), but at least he can't hate himself as vehemently while listening to all this. 

Really, he thinks, leaning in to press a kiss to Grantaire's cheek, this is more than he could ever deserve.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there are so many OCs I hate myself

Zéphine finds Enjolras a new therapist so easily that Combeferre, impressed, recommends her to all their friends. Some of them take him up on it, too. "Doctors like her are why the medical establishment is still respectable!" Joly says, and no one disagrees, not even Enjolras.

He doesn't want a new therapist, but he does appreciate all the effort that Zéphine went to. She doesn't know the full story about Theodule, so she can't be expected to realize how terrible counseling can be. 

But, he wishes he could just be grateful for the effort and leave it at that, because actually going to see this new person seems excessive. He's fine on his own; he doesn't need help, and he really doesn’t need to talk to anyone about his problems. What problems? He's totally great.

"You're not great," Cosette tells him when he voices this opinion (no, fact). "You know I don't believe in forcing people to do things that they don't want to do, but I'm worried about you. Will you at least give this new person a chance?"

"A chance to what, violate my rights because they want to sleep with me?"

"Oh, Enjolras," Cosette sighs. "Look, I'm so sorry that happened to you. Believe me, if I could, I would punch Theodule so hard that he wouldn't be able to leave his house for a week. But you can't let him get in the way of your recovery. You deserve so much more than that."

"Recovery from what? I don't have any problems."

"Oh? What did you have to eat today?"

"Whiskey."

"And yesterday?"

"Wine. And juice."

"I rest my case."

Enjolras looks down, pouting. He knows Cosette has a point, and logically, he knows that he really does need help. But it seems selfish, and problematic, and way too troublesome to actually go out and make the effort. Honestly, he would much rather just stay in his room. 

Cosette notices his expression and puts an arm around him, pulling him in close. "Hey, it's okay. I know it's hard. But you do deserve this, all right?"

"Promise?"

"Aww, you– yes, sweet angel, I promise."

"Hmm."

Enjolras doesn't believe her. How could he, when he’s, well. _Himself_? But he's too tired to argue. Everything is such a struggle, moving, talking staying upright– at this point, giving in and seeing the new therapist will probably be the path of least resistance.

Which is. Strange, to say the least. When has he _ever_ been one to take the path of least resistance? This is so contrary to what he is, so shockingly anti-Enjolras, that it leaves him shaking. What is he turning into? And what's going to be left after this?

As if sensing his thoughts, Cosette reaches down under his knees and scoops him up, bundling him up into her lap like a floppy kittycat.

"Here, sit on me," she says.

Enjolras isn't arguing. He gets comfortable, telling himself that it's okay, that Cosette offered, so he's not presuming in any way. And it's nice, the warmth and the safety and the affection.

"Thank you," he says, a bit more sappily than he'd wanted, but then again, not everyone can be stoic and matter-of-fact all the time, not even him (contrary to what some people might believe), so maybe it's okay.

Cosette certainly seems to think so. She cuddles close-up, all nice, solid warmth, arms tucked firmly around what feels like Enjolras's entire body. She's always been a fortress, metaphorically speaking, and now she feels like a physical one, too.

"I have you," she says. "Don't worry, it's okay. You can relax."

Enjolras buries his face against her sweater. It's a little itchy on his nose, but that's a price he's willing to pay for the added measure of safety. 

"I don't want to be a burden," he says, voice muffled. 

"How are you a burden?" Cosette wants to know. "You deserve to get help, just like anyone else."

"Mm-mm. Can't."

"Why not?"

Why not indeed. Honestly, Enjolras isn't sure himself. All he knows is how terrible he feels, about himself, his life, and pretty much everything in general. He huffs softly instead of replying, letting his melancholy speak for him.

It does the job; Cosette huffs back at him, half amused and half sympathetic, and lifts her hand to pet his hair. 

"It's okay," she croons, voice smooth and soothing. "Listen, I know how hard this is. But I'm here for you, and so is everyone else. I promise, love, you're okay. Everything is going to be okay."

Enjolras doesn't believe this, necessarily (Cosette has always been a little overly optimistic), but he can't deny that it's comforting to hear. Then, too, he feels as if he's being held together in her arms. There's no way he'll fall apart, not like this.

So, he stays where he is, havened for just this moment, putting off the pain of the future for just a little bit more.

\--

"A dinner party?"

"I know, I know. But listen–”

"Courfeyrac, I know you're paranoid of awkwardness. But don't you think it's a little much to ask _Enjolras_ –”

"It's not like I'm asking him to eat anything!"

“What, just being there isn't bad enough?"

Enjolras looks back and forth between his two best friends, eyes alight with interest. He's feeling pretty good today– he's had some coffee, and a couple shots of vodka to boot, and he doesn't immediately want to die, so this discussion is more fascinating than anything else.

“’Ferre," he says. Immediately, Combeferre and Courfeyrac swing around to look at him.

"What's the matter?"

"I'm okay!" Enjolras gives them a thumbs-up to prove it, going on only when they start to look marginally convinced. "What even is this party? Why do you think it'll be awkward?"

Combeferre looks pointedly at Courfeyrac, who sighs like the bottom has dropped out of his world. 

"It's my weird auntie and uncle," he says. "We don't really hang out with them much, except at family gatherings. But now they invited me over, and I can't really say no, so I have to go."

Combeferre shrugs. "So? Just go." 

"I can't! Not alone!"

"What are you afraid of?"

Courfeyrac flops back on the couch, groaning loudly. "Seriously, guys, can't you see why I don't wanna do this? Come on, please! Help a brother out!"

"I'll help you out," says Enjolras. Combeferre stares at him, disbelieving. 

"Really? You're okay with that?"

"I mean, why not?"

"You would be saving my life," Courfeyrac tells him seriously. "Like, I would owe you everything. I would buy you that philosophy book you wanted."

"Which one?"

"Any of them."

"Okay, but Enjolras? Do you know what you're getting yourself into?" Combeferre lays a hand on his shoulder, heavy and concerned. "I mean, this is a dinner party. Are you sure you would be okay?"

"I mean. I don't have to eat anything, right?"

"No, you really don't," says Courfeyrac. Enjolras nods, determined.

"See? It'll be okay."

"Hmm."

Combeferre takes his phone out of his shirt pocket (he thinks this is the proper place to put it, and no one has been able to convince him otherwise) and starts typing away. Enjolras peers over his shoulder.

"Who's that, ‘Ferre?"

Combeferre looks up, face serious. "I'm texting Grantaire. If you're going to do this, you can at least have him with you."

"Not you?"

"No, I'll be there too. But I have the feeling you're going to need all the support you can get."

"Oh."

"It'll be fine," Courfeyrac says hastily. "Come on, Combeferre, don't be such a worrywart. It'll all work out great."

"If you say so."

"No, for real!"

"Don't worry," Enjolras says, hugging both of them around the shoulders. He presses his cheek up against Combeferre’s. "I'm sure it will all be fine. How bad can it be anyway?"

Courfeyrac grins and slaps him in camaraderie, fortunately softly enough that it doesn't hurt. "That's the spirit!"

Combeferre still doesn't look convinced, but he sighs and nods. He's always been one to support his friends in everything they choose to do.

"Okay," he says. "Well, let's do our best. For all of us.”

\--

The next day, Enjolras is languishing in all the regret of a too-hasty decision. He doesn't feel well; he has a migraine, and he's been dragging and feeling disgusting all day. Class seems to take an eternity. He only gets through by doodling pictures of bugs on his notebook so that his focus stays where it's supposed to be, and even so, there’s about a million other places for his mind to wander. His brain, excitable and overactive as it is, is always too busy to focus completely on any one thing, and often that's okay, but today, his thoughts are spinning into the dark, and leaving him aching for a safety pin– or a drink.

Finally, though, he finishes class and crawls home to collapse on the couch and put a pillow over his head. If he had his way, he wouldn't move from here for a month. 

Unfortunately, he isn't about to have his way. About fifteen minutes after he comes home, Courfeyrac comes prancing in, all starry-eyed with the excitement of going to a real, bona-fide dinner party with his friends. He picks Enjolras off the couch and marches him into his room to get dressed, ignoring his weak, sad little sounds.

"You're going to be so pretty," he sings. "You're always pretty, so this time, with my expert styling, you're going to absolutely blow them away! They'll love you! Get ready, here comes Enjolras~!"

Enjolras doesn't have the heart to protest. He allows himself to be wrangled into a dressy sort of outfit, and sits docilely while Courfeyrac puts makeup on him and fixes his hair. It would probably be a nice look on anyone else, but he's sure from the bottom of his heart that he looks disgusting, so he refuses to look in the mirror, opting instead to kiss Courfeyrac on the cheek and thank him for the styling. Courfeyrac is so happy that he bounces out of the room, flying high on his success, and goes to find Combeferre and Grantaire (who have apparently arrived already) and try to get them into matching outfits.

Enjolras doesn't concern himself with this. He's too busy sitting cross-legged on the bed, staring down at his hands, and thinking about death. It's a very important job, and someone's gotta do it.

After awhile, though, the others miss him, so Grantaire comes into the bedroom to fetch him out. Sure enough, he's wearing an outfit that tangentially matches Enjolras's, although he isn't wearing makeup, and his hair is much wilder. Courfeyrac probably gave that much up as a lost cause. 

"Hey babe," he says. Enjolras looks up.

"Hi."

Grantaire comes over to sit beside him on the bed. He gives him a lingering kiss on the forehead before pulling away to look him over.

"Holy shit. You're so cute."

"Really?"

"Of course. I mean, you're always cute. But I haven't seen you all dressed up for awhile, and it looks really nice."

"You're sure? It's not too much?"

"It's not. I promise."

Enjolras doesn't necessarily believe it, because Grantaire, while generally somewhat honest in other respects, has never admitted to seeing any flaw in Enjolras's appearance. But Enjolras knows that he would definitely at least mention if something was blatantly off, so he does his best to smile, and offers up a sweet kiss.

"Okay. If you say so, I trust you."

And he's not lying; he does trust Grantaire in everything, really, or at least he's beginning to do so. Even already, he can't help but feel better. 

Grantaire looks down at him with that look in his eyes, as if he's not sure whether or not he's real, and if he is, then he's a miracle.

"Sweetheart," he says.

He doesn't get any further than that. Courfeyrac bursts into the room, one hand ostentatiously held over his eyes.

"Are you guys decent?"

"As much as I'll ever be," Grantaire tells him gravely. 

"Great!" Courfeyrac hops in place, curly-headed energizer bunny. He reaches out grabby hands to Enjolras and Grantaire. "Come on, guys! It's time to go. We're going to be late if we don't hurry!"

Enjolras still doesn't understand why he's so excited. Maybe it's some of his natural exuberance, or maybe it's the fact that dinner parties are, in theory, something that people are supposed to enjoy. Whatever it is, it makes no sense. But Enjolras would never want to detract from anyone's genuine, innocent happiness, and he loves Courfeyrac and wants to do his best for him. So he plasters a smile on his face and gets off the bed.

"I'm just about ready. Is Combeferre back yet?"

"Yeah, he's just putting the finishing touches on my salad. It's going to be so pretty!"

"I'm sure it is. You're so good at cooking."

Courfeyrac ruffles his hair (though he takes blatant care not to disrupt the styling). "You're the sweetest. I hope tonight lives up to our expectations."

"I'm sure it will."

Enjolras isn't actually sure of this. In fact, he doesn't know the last time he's been _less_ sure. But when Courfeyrac smiles at him, he knows that it's all worth it.

Combeferre decides to drive them to dinner. Courfeyrac has been pre-gaming a little, and Grantaire, noticing how anxious Enjolras is, opts to sit with him in the backseat and try to calm him down. It doesn't really work, but Enjolras does appreciate the effort. He puts his forehead against Grantaire's shoulder and closes his eyes, trying to block out the world for just a second longer.

All too soon, though, they arrive. Courfeyrac pops out of the car and opens everyone's doors for them, grinning brightly.

"Are you ready?" he asks, then goes on before anyone has a chance to reply. "Come on, come on out! You're going to love them. I'm sure. And they're going to love you. Now let's go!"

Enjolras follows his friends to the door, trying not to drag his feet. He wishes he'd convinced Courfeyrac to share some of that liquid courage before they'd left, because he really feels like he needs it now. It's not "healthy" to take a drink every time he feels overwhelmed, apparently (or at least, that's what the establishment would have him believe), but screw that. It's been a long time since he cared about health. He looks up at Grantaire.

"Hey, did you bring a flask?"

"What? A flask?"

"You know. An alcohol flask."

"No, I've been trying to stop carrying that around with me unless I’m– wait. Why do you want to know this? Do you want some alcohol?"

"Maybe a little?"

"Oh, Enjolras." Grantaire faces him, holds him by the shoulders like a wrestling coach. "Listen, I don't want to scold or preach or anything like that. But I feel like you might be developing some kind of unhealthy coping mechanisms here."

“Gosh, you don’t say?”

"Shut up. You know what I mean. I'm just… you won't be upset if I tell you how worried I am, right?"

"I don't think so?"

"Okay, good. Because I'm _really_ worried, Enjolras. I just want you to be healthy and happy and safe, you know?"

"Uh– not same. But I'm glad _someone's_ invested in my well-being."

Grantaire's face contorts. He looks like he's about to cry. "Enjolras…”

"Hey, are you guys coming?" Courfeyrac waves to them from the front step, loud and cheery enough that his relatives can probably hear him from inside the house. Combeferre nods at them, hands full of salad.

"Come on, it'll be nice."

"Coming," calls Grantaire, and reaches for Enjolras's hand once again. "We'll talk more about this later," he says in a quieter tone.

Enjolras shrugs. He knows he can't really escape well-meaning impulses. But he does tug insistently on Grantaire's hand.

"So just to be clear– no flask?"

"Oh my god–”

"I'm ringing the bell," shouts Courfeyrac. He kicks at Combeferre until he sighs long-sufferingly and presses the bell with his elbow. Enjolras and Grantaire come up the steps just as the door swings open, and Courfeyrac's aunt comes out.

"Oh, hello!" she says. Her voice sounds like parchment paper. "Come on in, boys. It's so nice to finally meet you."

"We're all glad to be here," Combeferre tells her with a courteous sort of half-bow. She absolutely brightens at this.

"Aren't you just a treasure! Are you Combeferre?"

"That's me."

"I knew it! Come on, let's go put that in the kitchen. My, it does look pretty, doesn't it? Come on!"

With this, she bustles everyone inside, stopping only long enough for them to take off their shoes and coats and lay them by the door.

Enjolras doesn't have anything to put in the kitchen, nor does he have any adoring relatives to greet, so he's left standing awkwardly in the foyer, looking around at the (frankly rather tasteless) decorations. He's so glad Grantaire's with him; this whole thing would be a nightmare otherwise.

"Thank you for coming with me," he says, or at least that's what he wants to say, but what ends up coming out of his mouth is, "look at that chicken."

"What?"

Enjolras points. "A chicken."

Sure enough, there's a framed picture of a chicken on the wall, rendered in loving detail. It's in oils, or gouache, or something like that, very professional looking, really. Grantaire squints at it. 

"Why is it so artistically good?"

"Maybe it's a pet."

"Okay, but who has a pet chicken, though?"

"It's a national symbol of France," Enjolras points out. "That's something, right?"

"Isn't the national symbol a _cock_?"

Enjolras swats at Grantaire, blushing. "Stop that! It's a perfectly innocent word."

"I didn't say it wasn't."

Enjolras laughs, only the very littlest bit, it's true, but he hasn't wanted to laugh in awhile and it feels nice. Grantaire must agree, because he looks delighted and pulls Enjolras right up close to him.

"You're so precious. Come here."

Enjolras is happy to. He steps into Grantaire's space and is about to lean up for a kiss, when there's a shuffling footstep in the hall, and Courfeyrac's auntie comes back out. 

"Hello, boys," she says. Her mouth is a tight, thin line. Enjolras tries to smile at her.

"Uh– hi. We were, uh, we were just looking at your cock."

Oh lord.

Grace must be real, though, because Courfeyrac's auntie smiles, suddenly and miraculously, and points to the picture on the wall. "Isn't he sweet? He's our pet rooster. Well, I suppose we're his pet humans, really. He rules the roost, as they say."

"I knew it!" Enjolras grins triumphantly at Grantaire, who still looks like he's trying to to laugh. "He looks like a cute pet, right? What's his name?"

"Chanticleer."

"Ah. Very nice. Very… traditional."

"Only the best for our little boy." Courfeyrac's auntie puts one hand on Enjolras's shoulder and the other on Grantaire’s, leading them both towards the doorway. "Now, come on. Dinner's almost ready."

Enjolras's good (or, not-bad) mood disappears in a flash. It's eating time now. Even if he himself doesn't eat anything, he still has to be in a room full of people who are, and the task's growing more and more daunting with every passing second. He can't really do anything now, though, so he clenches his fist to feel his nails and obediently walks with Courfeyrac's auntie into the dining room. 

Courfeyrac is sitting down already, talking to a man who must be his uncle, based on the curliness of his hair. He doesn't share Courfeyrac's cheerful manner, though; there are deep lines etched between his eyebrows, and the corners of his mouth are turned down as if they've been glued there. He doesn't so much as nod at Enjolras and Grantaire.

"Are we ready?" he asks abruptly. 

Enjolras feels his heart drop. He doesn't know if this is normal for Courfeyrac's uncle or not, maybe he's just a grumpy sort of person, and isn't furious that a vile person like Enjolras has dared to set foot into his sacred house. Maybe he doesn't want to kick them all out with curses flung after them. Maybe everything's fine.

Or, maybe it's not. Maybe everything's terrible. It could be either, really. Enjolras tries smiling hesitantly, and is met with one of the coldest stares he's ever seen. It feels like there are holes being bored into his soul. 

Okay, so it's terrible. Enjolras looks at the floor and wishes for death.

"Oh! Uncle Paul! You haven't met everyone yet, right?" Courfeyrac bounces up and comes over to Enjolras. He seizes him by the shoulders and brings him forward, as if to show him off. "Here! This is Enjolras! Isn't he cute?"

Enjolras feels his face heat up. He tries to look up, but when Courfeyrac's uncle just stares at him, he drops his eyes again, frightened. 

Courfeyrac, undeterred, cheerfully introduces Grantaire and then Combeferre, who's come out from the kitchen just in time to catch Courfeyrac's little Who's-Who show. Both of them handle the introduction much better, smiling charmingly, and even slipping in a few social platitudes that make Paul at least grunt in recognition. 

"So, that's that," says Courfeyrac, once all pleasantries have been exchanged. He bounces on his toes. "Auntie Lila, should we eat now?"

Lila smiles at him, careworn and thin, but affectionate. "You always bring so much life with you. Yes, let's eat."

Courfeyrac insists on pulling out chairs for everyone, which Enjolras appreciates, because he has no idea where to sit. Unfortunately, though, he ends up next to Paul, who looks down his nose at him and squints, but doesn't say a word. Enjolras crosses his hands in his lap and presses his nails into his wrist as hard as he can. 

"So, this looks great," says Courfeyrac. He reaches out for the dish in front of him, but before he can get to it, Paul slaps his hand away. 

"Not yet."

Courfeyrac wrinkles his forehead. "What?"

"Your aunt will serve you."

That's interesting. Enjolras looks up at Lila to see how she's taking this. Is this a family tradition or something?

Lila just sighs wearily and reaches for the serving spoon. "Here, Courfeyrac. Let me."

Lila dishes up food for everyone, even Enjolras, because he can't think of a way to stop her. She gives him a lot, too. When he looks up in involuntary dismay, she pats him on the hand.

"You need to eat more, honey. You're too thin."

He's not supposed to take that as a compliment, right? 

Once everyone has their food, Paul inhales loudly. Enjolras is afraid he's going to do something scary like make them go around the table and say what they're thankful for, but fortunately, he just exhales again, and tells everyone to eat.

The others do, even Lila, although she looks pretty stressed, but Enjolras can't bring himself to try anything. It's as if there's a disconnect between him and the food on his plate; no matter what his intentions are, he physically can't eat any of it. It looks nice, he can't deny that, but looking and eating are two very different things.

He pushes his food around on his plate for awhile, and builds structures out of rice, until (of course) someone notices. Lila leans across Grantaire to talk quietly to him.

"What's wrong? Don't you like it?"

"Oh!" Enjolras looks up from yet another sticky rice castle. "Um, no I do, I…”

Lila looks at him expectantly. "I could fix you something else?"

"No, no that's okay!" Damn it, this is exactly why he hates dinner parties. "No, um, don't worry. I'm just– recovering from the stomach flu."

There. That's a good one. Everyone looks shocked, though, and maybe a little grossed out, so he flaps his hand awkwardly like the socially inept cabbage that he is.

"Don't worry, I'm not contagious! I don't have germs anymore. Just… the Pain. I mean, no. Well, yes."

Paul leans over to whisper something in Courfeyrac's ear. Whatever it is, it can't be good, because Courfeyrac frowns and fires something off in Tagalog, and Lila looks at Enjolras with a pitying expression. 

"Don't worry, dear," she says. "Would you like some juice? That can be easier to swallow sometimes."

Enjolras quite literally wants to die. This whole thing is awful. He looks down at the table, face flushed a bright, hot red. 

"Yes, please."

Lila brings him a pitcher of juice and a pretty crystal glass. It's much too fancy for just him. How is everything so awkward at all times, in all points of his life, ever? Still, he mumbles a heartfelt thank-you and pours himself a glass, thanking all the powers that be when he doesn't spill.

Now that he's taken care of, Lila goes back to interrogating Courfeyrac about his work. "You said you were working on an interesting case, right? Are you allowed to tell us anything about it?"

"I'm a lawyer, not an FBI agent," says Courfeyrac good-humoredly. Lila just looks intrigued.

"Tell us, then."

Courfeyrac starts talking. He's a good story-teller. Even Enjolras, who's heard this before, can't help but listen in. Lila smiles and nods and asks questions at appropriate times, and makes every sign of genuinely enjoying herself.

Everything's going well, until Courfeyrac pauses to take a bite of food, and Paul speaks up. 

"When are you going to get a real job, Courfeyrac?"

Enjolras stiffens in sympathetic shock, but Courfeyrac just sighs in a weary sort of way, as if he's used to this and saw it coming.

"This is a job that I enjoy, and that I'm good at. I don't see any reason to change it."

Paul sniffs. "You could at least work in another field. Immigration law is for pussies."

If Enjolras's and Courfeyrac's positions were reversed, Enjolras would never let this go. But Courfeyrac is much more diplomatic, and much better at avoiding conflict, so he merely raises his hands peaceably and inclines his head.

"You're entitled to that opinion, of course, Uncle Paul. I don't agree, but I don't think we need to argue here. Let's talk about something else."

Paul harrumphs like a steam engine, but he says nothing more. Lila smiles, still strained, and steps in.

"So, boys. What do you all do? Courfeyrac never said much.”

"I'm a doctor," says Combeferre into the answering silence. Lila looks pleased.

“Oh, a health professional! What field?"

"Neurology. I'm doing my residency at Ronald Reagan."

"Isn't that wonderful? I'm sure you must have a lot of stories to tell."

"I pick up a few here and there," says Combeferre. Lila looks like he's made her entire night. 

"You'll have to tell us some later, once we're done eating. Now! Grantaire, what do you do?"

"I work in web development," Grantaire tells her. "It's nice, and not just because I get to make my own hours. It's super fun, too."

"Really? You like it? It's a lot of coding, isn't it?"

"It is. But that's the fun part."

Grantaire starts explaining a bit more about his work schedule and what his job entails, while the others listen closely. Enjolras is listening, too, but he's also praying that the conversation will be derailed, and no one will try to ask him what he's doing with his life. If they do, they're not going to get a very impressive answer.

Luck doesn't seem to be on his side, though, because after awhile, there's a lull in the conversation and Lila turns her attention on him, smiling kindly. 

"So, what do you do, honey? Are you a student?"

Enjolras isn't sure why he's "honey" and no one else is, but he'll go with it. He's always here for endearments when they come from non-creepy people. It doesn't make it any easier for him to speak, though.

"I go to UCLA for political science," he says. He can't decide whether or not to provide more information– he never knows how much to share with people, and Lila, maybe glimpsing his hesitation, pushes on.

"I see, so you're still in undergrad. What year are you?"

"Third year. Um, junior, I guess."

"That's nice. It gives you some time to figure out what you want to do with your future."

Oh, here it comes. Enjolras pinches his wrist to prepare, trying to find courage in the pain.

"What do you want to do, anyway?"

 _Say something, just say something_. "Law school?" 

He hates that it comes out as a question. The truth is, he doesn't really know. Law school is the dream, sure, but nowadays, he's lost confidence in his ability to get there, or to succeed even if he does. He doesn't see any doubt that he'll graduate on time; that part isn't an issue. But the other things, the things that don't have to do strictly with academia, those are sadly lacking. 

"I see," says Lila, as if unintentionally feeding off his discomfort. "So right now you're doing what, internships? Research?"

Neither. Enjolras knows he has to, and he hates himself for not being involved, but the truth is, he can barely bring himself to finish his coursework, let alone anything else. 

(He volunteers a bit, sure. But lately, he's even been slacking on that, too weak and exhausted for anything but barest survival.)

In all honesty, looking for internships and research takes so much energy, so much power that he doesn't have. His ability to do anything seems to get lower and lower every time he so much as tries to look for job openings. Yes, he hates himself for it, more and more each day, in fact, knowing that he's failing in every aspect of the word, but everything's so hard. Impossible, even. He must be the most incompetent person in the world.

Lila is still waiting for an answer. Enjolras shrugs, sure that he looks like some kind of alien freshly come to earth. 

"Ah, well. You know. I try to do what I can."

"You won't get anywhere without an internship," says Paul suddenly. Enjolras draws back before he can help it.

"Um. Really?"

"Yeah. You need to stand out. What exactly do you have that makes you special?"

He's probably speaking rhetorically, not actually asking, or at least that's what Enjolras would guess if he weren't so flattened by the alarm bells pealing in his head. _Warning, warning! You're incompetent and a failure_! Enjolras presses his nails into his wrist again, harder.

"I guess that's true. I mean– I know."

"Okay," breaks in Courfeyrac. "Who wants dessert? I do. Should we have dessert?"

"I suppose." Paul makes a dismissive sort of gesture to Lila, shooing her out to the kitchen. "Go on, then. Get the dessert."

Enjolras wants to fight him, so instead of sitting around and filling up with rage, he gets to his feet (ungracefully, it's true, but quickly enough). 

"I'll help," he says to Lila, and follows her into the kitchen before she can argue.

It works. She doesn't argue at all. Once they're in the kitchen, which is conveniently far away from the dining room, she lets her tight-lipped smile drop, and looks at Enjolras with something close to despondency in her eyes.

"Thank you, honey. It means a lot."

"It's okay," says Enjolras, partially confused, and mostly concerned. "But, um, are you all right?"

Lila runs her hands through her hair, sort of like Courfeyrac does when he's been looking at case files for too long. "I am. It just gets to be overwhelming sometimes."

"What does?"

"Everything. _Him_. This is the first time we've had anyone over in almost a year, do you know that?"

"Ah. Really?"

"Yes. And this is the first time in _I can't tell you_ how long that someone's offered to help me with something."

Enjolras pats her on the arm. He's awkward about it, because he's always afraid of touching people, and he doesn't really know what to do here, but something tells him that this is right.

This something must be correct. Lila's face crumples, not exactly in a bad way, but Enjolras can't really tell what way it is, because then she's wrapping him up in a tight embrace, leaning down to bury her face in his shoulder. 

"You darling," she says, voice breaking. "You precious, sweet thing."

 _What did I do, though_ , Enjolras wants to know. He doesn't think he did anything. It figures, the one time he makes something good happen, it's by accident.

"It's okay," he offers, awkward and stilted even to his own ears. Lila sniffs.

"I know, it will be. Just, give me a minute."

"Okay."

Enjolras pats her on the back. Then, in an attempt to be helpful, he tries to mimic what Combeferre does for him, and draws a heart-shaped pattern with his palm. It works on him every time, but Lila sniffles again, seeming more and more like she's about to break down. 

Is that bad? Enjolras stops again. "It's going to be okay," he says instead. Words have always been his preferred method of communication. "You know, it might seem like it lasts forever now, but you'll still wake up tomorrow, and you'll have gotten through one more hard day. And that makes you a hero, you know."

Finally, Lila pulls away. Her eyes are red. "Do you mean that?"

"Yeah, promise! You might think that you're never going to get to the light, or that you don't even deserve to, or that there's nothing wrong at all and you're complaining for no reason, or that you're worthless and unlovable and undeserving of anything good because you're a bad person, or that if you eat even the tiniest thing, you're sinning against the world–”

Lila's forehead wrinkles. "I don't think that."

"Oh. Well, you know. Whatever it is you might think, it's okay. You don't have to feel bad about thinking it, because all your thoughts are valid, you know? But that doesn't mean they're true. You've been in this bad situation, and it's hard to see clearly sometimes when you're going through so much. So what you're thinking, I'm sure it's not real. You're a really nice person. And I'm sorry you've been having a hard time, because you don't deserve it. Just, please know that it's not your fault, and it's going to get better. The universe made a mistake in keeping you down, but it won't stay that way forever. It can't!"

Lila stares at him for a moment. It's not really clear what she's thinking; her eyes don't say much except Emotion, and Enjolras has no idea which one it is. Then, she puts a soap-dry hand on his shoulder, almost too light enough to feel.

"You're a little angel."

Enjolras doesn't see why everyone has to call him _little_ all the time. Surely there are other adjectives in stock. In spite of this, though, there are tears beginning to prickle in his eyes, and there's a catch in his voice when he says thank-you. Something about this has resonated right down deep in his core. 

Lila pats him on the cheek and kisses him on the top of the head, almost like Combeferre and Courfeyrac do. She's so warm and kind. It really makes Enjolras wonder how she got stuck in a situation like this in the first place. It's not like anyone deserves this, but she reminds him of Mr. Fauchelevent, and the idea of her suffering alone here hurts. 

He doesn't want to drag out the touchy-touchyness, though, just in case it's awkward. So he coughs gently and looks around the kitchen for any possible desserts.

"What are we getting, here?" he asks. 

"Ah." Lila shakes herself a little bit. She, too, looks around the kitchen as if she's seeing it for the first time, even though it's her own house. "Well, let's see. I have a pound cake and some ice cream and berries. Do you think that will work?"

"That sounds good," says Enjolras, as if he's a consultant on the matter. It really does sound nice, though. He likes fruit, and sweets are always a little easier to eat than other types of foods.

Lila seems satisfied with this, so she hands him the bowl of fruit, and together, they carry the dessert out to the other room. Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Grantaire look up, smiling, while Paul glares from under his eyebrows.

"Took you long enough."

"I'm sorry. We had to get a few things ready."

Lila's tone is light, but her face is closed-off once again. She sits down without another word.

"Thanks, auntie Lila," says Courfeyrac. This time, he doesn't try to serve anyone.

Lila nods at him. She dishes up dessert for everyone, pausing when she gets to Enjolras.

"Can you eat some?"

Enjolras points at the berries, then immediately withdraws his hand, ashamed. What is he, a baby? He clears his throat. 

"Can I have a little fruit?"

"Of course."

Lila gives him a dish, fortunately less full than last time. It really does look nice, and fruit is more okay than some other things, even if it is too delicious sometimes. Enjolras tastes it delicately while the others dig in to their own dishes.

"This is great," says Courfeyrac. "Did you make this cake yourself?"

Lila looks the tiniest bit proud. "I did. I don't like using mixes, because then you lose half the fun. Actually, I used Lola's recipe. Do you taste the orange?"

Courfeyrac takes another bite, frowning scientifically. He smacks his lips (it's playful, but Enjolras cringes at the sound anyway), tilts his head from side to side, and finally decrees that he does. Lila looks pleased.

"I'm glad you like it. I think sugar always helps to brighten your day."

It must, because dessert goes smoothly. Paul doesn't make any more nasty comments, so no one has the need to feel tense (except Enjolras, who's tense all the time, but that's sort of a given). The others finish up their dishes fairly quickly, and although Enjolras doesn't, at least he makes a valiant effort, and does end up eating a good portion of his fruit in the end.

After everyone's plates have been cleared away (Lila does it alone, on Paul's insistence) Lila asks if everyone would like some tea. Enjolras would prefer alcohol, but he doesn't think this is an option, so he nods politely along with the others. 

Everyone moves out to the living room, while Lila goes back to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Enjolras is tempted to offer his help, but Combeferre asks first, and Lila seems pleased to get a chance to talk with him, so they go off together, and Enjolras sits down on the edge of the couch, spine rigid. Grantaire sits down beside him, not close enough, but it's some comfort anyway. 

"So," says Paul, suddenly chatty. "Enjolras, is it?"

Enjolras nods. There's nothing else he can do.

"You're studying political science, right? What do you want to do with that?"

"Law school–”

"Yes, yes. But how exactly is that going to contribute anything to this world?"

"I could help the victims of society. Justice–”

"Give me a break. You just want the money."

That's not true. Enjolras couldn't care less about money. He knows it's a sign of his own privilege; he's never had to worry about it, so it's never been a concern. He wouldn't mind having a steady income, and of course he wants to have enough money to help people, but this particular motivation to finish law school has never really entered his head. 

"That's not it," he says. 

"Yeah, right. As if anyone could be so noble. I'm telling you, philanthropy doesn't exist. The so-called urge to help people is nothing more than selfishness."

Enjolras draws back a little bit. "You don't believe that people can be good?"

"Not really. You're telling me you legitimately want to help people? That's stupid. No one actually thinks that way."

"They do," protests Enjolras. 

He's so confused by all this. It's not like Grantaire's brand of cynicism, which is founded on disappointment and crushed hopes; it's more nasty, more pointed. Enjolras can't help but feel that Paul doesn't believe in goodness because he doesn't have much of it in himself. He doesn't want to help people, so he doesn't believe that anyone else could, either. 

Grantaire must think the same, because he frowns deeply and speaks up. "You're being a little too harsh. Some people are assholes, yeah. But think about all the small acts of kindness you see everyday. Are you saying those are purely selfish?"

"Definitely." Paul leans forward in his chair and taps Enjolras on the knee. "Think about it. Everything anyone does, they do for themselves. If you choose to help yourself, it's for you, and if you choose to help someone else, that's for you, too. Real concern for others doesn't exist. To think otherwise is naive."

"It's not naive," Enjolras says, indignation coursing through him and replacing the anxiety of a moment ago. " _You_ think about it. How is it selfish to make someone's life better? Sure, it might make you feel good for a few minutes. But that's negligible. There are people, countless people, who love others more than they love themselves. And I'm not saying it should be so, but doesn't this widespread idea of selflessness tell you something? Like, maybe that people can care for others in a real, unselfish, genuine way?"

Paul glares at him. "You're an argumentative little thing, aren't you." 

"I've been told so, yes."

"Let's talk about something else," breaks in Courfeyrac, seeing that no one is about to back down. He comes over to the couch and wedges himself in next to Enjolras. "Hey, so! Didn't you pose for Grantaire's latest painting? How was that?"

 _Pose_ is a bit of a strong word. Really, Enjolras had taken a nap on the couch, and Grantaire had painted him while he was sleeping (with his full knowledge and consent, of course). It had turned out beautiful, if maybe a little excessively angelic-looking. 

"It was fun," says Grantaire, seeing that Enjolras is still too riled up to switch topics like this. He pats him on the leg. "He's a good model, you know? Doesn't move around too much, or try to disrupt the artistic vision."

"Was your vision that I'm some kind of seraphim?" asks Enjolras. "Because that's what I looked like."

Grantaire gives him a private, intimate smile, the kind he uses when he's about to drag him into the nearest semi-secluded place and kiss the sense out of him. Obviously he's not going to do that now, but he does squeeze Enjolras's thigh before letting go. 

"That was pretty much it, yeah."

At this juncture, Lila and Combeferre come in with the tea. Combeferre has a tray with sugar and cream and lemon on it, and he sets it down on the coffee table with a flourish. He's always been a bit of a snob about tea. 

"Have some," he says. 

He and Lila take turns pouring and serving the tea, making the most efficient two-person assembly line that Enjolras has ever seen. Even so, he's too embarrassed to ask for his usual three heaping spoons of sugar, and accepts the plain cup of tea without anything more than a quiet word of thanks.

Now that everyone has their tea, it's easier to sit back and chitchat about inoffensive subjects. Maybe the warmth of the cups is good for soothing feelings, or maybe it's some chemical property of tea leaves that creates the relaxing atmosphere, but either way, no one seems eager to argue. 

It would be nice. It should be. But Enjolras can't settle down. He doesn't feel well himself, of course, but it's nothing he hasn't experienced before, and he can handle this much discomfort with no complaint. But something about all this leaves him fidgeting, too disturbed to remember his manners and sit still. What exactly is going on in this house? Lila seems so unhappy, and Paul… well. If Enjolras were better at being tactful, he might be tempted to sleuth for more information, and use it to help. 

He wants to help. He can't stand to see this injustice (because it _is_ injustice, as rankling as any other) go on any longer than it has to. But he can't see any way to do so without making things worse, and he has to sit here and sip tea and pretend nothing's wrong, ignore the dust crawling on his skin, ignore the way he wants to scream aloud. It's intolerable. 

By the time everyone's done with their tea, and Courfeyrac is beginning to hint at leaving, Enjolras is close to boiling over. He can't leave without doing at least _something_ to help, no matter how small. That's a fact. But, he has no idea what this something could be, so when Combeferre yawns and stretches as if he's about to stand, he feels a shot of panic rush through him, making his head spin. 

Almost without realizing it, one of his hands finds Courfeyrac's, a measure of human warmth in this too-cold house, and he closes his fingers in, tight. Courfeyrac glances at him.

"Ça va?"

He thinks speaking French is sneaky, and he does it a lot when he wants to be subtle. Unfortunately, it's the opposite of subtle, especially because Enjolras automatically replies back every time he does it. 

"C'est pas grave, je te dirai plus tard..." Now Lila and Paul are both staring. Enjolras clears his throat. "Ah. I'm sorry."

This doesn't help in the least. Lila looks concerned. 

"Are you all right, dear?"

"I'm fine, I just," Enjolras makes some sort of strange, half-aborted gesture. "Can I talk to you? Um, out there?"

"Of course."

Lila stands up and ushers Enjolras out of the room. Behind them, Enjolras can hear Paul snidely referencing "puking problems," and that's extremely wrong, but it's as good an excuse as any, so it doesn't bear correction. 

It's fortunate that Lila's house is so big. Enjolras can go down the hall and into one of the spare bedrooms, and not have to worry about being overheard. So he does, and Lila goes with him, looking puzzled now. 

"Are you sure you're all right?" she asks.

Instead of answering, Enjolras reaches out and holds her sleeve. "Lila! Are _you_ all right? You know, there are options, you don't have to…”

"But I do." Lila nods once, sadly. "I know you want to help, dear, but I have no choice in this."

"Why not?" The question is out before Enjolras can filter himself for politeness. He lets go of Lila's sleeve and slaps himself on the arm. "Oh no, I shouldn't have asked that."

"No, please don't worry." Lila looks genuine, and not offended, so Enjolras settles down. He still wants to apologize, because that's one of the rules, but before he can, Lila goes on. "You probably can't tell, but I suffer from several rather serious mental disorders. As such, I need medication, and constant medical care. But I'm not employed, and I'm on Paul's insurance, so if I want to be able to afford these things, I have to continue with things as they are."

"That's not right!" Enjolras puts out his hand to hold Lila's sleeve again. "It's not fair that you should have to suffer just to be able to receive care. That's a basic human right! You deserve that, period. And you deserve to live comfortably!"

"That's sweet of you to say," says Lila. She really does look touched. "But think about it. If I tried to get out there on my own, can you imagine how hard it would be? I have no friends, our family doesn't like me, and I have no way to make money or support myself. It would be a disaster."

Enjolras sticks out his chin. "There has to be a way."

"I don't believe there is."

"Then, is there at least something I can do? Some way I can help?"

Enjolras isn't ready to give up yet, he's _not_ , but he's not going to make promises he can't keep, either. He'll keep looking into the larger issue by himself, and in the meantime, he'll gladly help Lila in any way he can. And once he has a good answer to the problem, he'll help settle things once and for all.

"You're a sweetheart," says Lila, sounding a little choked up. "I don't want to ask for much, but… if you and Courfeyrac and your other friends could come by occasionally, just so I could visit with you, it would help so much. If you're too busy, I understand, I just…”

"No, we'd love to come," Enjolras blurts out. Lila's eyes dance.

"Really?"

"Yes! And it's not charity or anything; we like you. And we'd be happy to come visit!"

Enjolras knows he's probably going to regret this fervor later, when leaving his room and talking to people is well-nigh impossible. But he's not going to fold. Once he's set his mind to do something, he always carries through. That's one of the few admirable traits about him. So he smiles again, a little more determination behind the plump of his lips, and a torchlight flare glowing in his eyes. 

"We'll make it happen," he promises.

\--

When Enjolras and his friends leave, Lila insists on giving them all the leftovers from dinner, packed neatly into innumerable tiny Tupperware containers. Enjolras rather suspects that this is her way of ensuring that they visit again, since now they'll have to bring the plasticware back, but he admires this ingenuity, so he just smiles and hugs her goodbye and tells her that they'll be back soon. Courfeyrac, obviously delighted by this, pops up and down and agrees. 

"Thanks so much for having us," he says brightly. "We all had lots of fun, and we'll be excited to see you again!"

Lila looks close to tears. "You're a dear boy, Courfeyrac. I'll be waiting to visit with you whenever you're free."

This is such an emotional statement that everyone has to exchange one more round of hugs, and clasp each other's hands, and kiss each other on the cheek. But finally, the time comes to part, and Enjolras and his friends head off to the car, waving vigorously behind them.

"So, that was fun," chirps Courfeyrac once everyone is strapped in and heading off towards home. He turns around in his seat to look at Enjolras and Grantaire, cuddled up in the back. "Wasn't it? Aren't you glad you came with me? It was a good time, right?"

Enjolras lifts his head off Grantaire's shoulder. He can't bring himself to be enthusiastic, not when there's a grave issue on his mind. "Courfeyrac," he says. 

Hearing his tone, Courfeyrac immediately settles down. "What is it?"

"Well, um, your aunt. She's not very happy, is she?"

"Oh, you could tell?"

"She told me." 

"It's kind of obvious, too," says Grantaire. "Like, did you see the way she got all quiet whenever Paul was close to her? That's what my mom used to do. Actually," here, he scratches his ear with the hand that's not holding Enjolras, "she acts a lot like my mom in different ways. That's not good."

"My uncle Paul is kind of an asshole," says Courfeyrac. Combeferre makes a questioning sound. 

"I thought so, too. But why, exactly?"

"I mean, you met him. Biggest control freak I've ever met. And he's super weird, like he has all these ridiculous beliefs that don't make any sense, but if you question them, he'll bite your head off. Like, he thinks the government creates the weather. That kind of weird."

"Oh boy."

"He's so rude, too. My first memory of him is him getting into a big argument with my mom at a family party. I don't know what it was about, but it was probably something trivial, because that's the sort of shit he pulls now."

"I don't like him," says Enjolras decisively. He only realizes that he sounds like a child when the others laugh and Grantaire makes a kissy face at him. 

"Aww, is that so~?"

"Oh, shut up. He's so annoying that he stole all my eloquence away."

"That's pretty damn annoying, all right."

"Is your aunt against divorce?" asks Combeferre thoughtfully. "Like, I don't know the details, obviously. But it seems like it would be for the best."

"Huh, I don't know." Courfeyrac makes his teakettle sound, the one he pulls out at distressing times. "You know, I always assumed there was a reason she's staying with him. But I don't know what it is. I haven't talked to her enough."

Enjolras figures this is his cue. Lila had seemed pretty straightforward about her problems, so he doesn't think she wants to keep them a secret. Besides, Courfeyrac is family, and Combeferre and Grantaire are close enough, and that should make it okay in any case. 

"I know," he says. The others all look at him, even Combeferre, though he turns his eyes back to the road half a second later. 

"How do you know and I don't?" Courfeyrac wants to know, but then he shakes his head. "Never mind. Just tell us."

Enjolras does. He isn't sure how to gauge the others' reactions at first, because they all seem sort of blank, but then Grantaire curses under his breath and Courfeyrac whistle-hisses again, and he knows they're as angry as he is.

"How unfair," says Combeferre. His voice is dark with indignation. "What kind of system do we live in, where someone has to live in misery in order to function? It's not right."

"It's not," agrees Enjolras. "Isn't there some way to fix this? I want to help."

Courfeyrac, resident lawyer, speaks up. "I think I've seen cases like this before. I don't know how they were resolved, though. It's so tricky."

The others sigh their agreement, and "I wonder if there's anyone we could refer her to," says Enjolras. He doesn't know of anyone off-hand, and in fact, he isn't sure exactly what kind of help would be needed (medical advice? insurance adjustment?), but even if he doesn't know, there has to be someone who does.

Courfeyrac hums, considering this. "Good point. Maybe I could ask some of my coworkers."

"And I could ask some of mine," says Combeferre. 

Grantaire raises his hand, determined not to be left out. "I know people all over. I can ask if anyone has some connections."

Enjolras coos in delight, cheered a bit for the first time all evening. That his friends will come through, he has no doubt; they're the most reliable people in the world. And meanwhile, he himself will be far from idle. He's going to do some poking around of his own, do some research into resources that might be of help to Lila, and people like her (because he doesn't believe for a second that her case is an isolated one). Surely there has to be something around that can help.

That night, Enjolras goes to sleep without drinking for the first time in weeks. He's so filled with purpose, and so busy thinking of what to do first, that the thought doesn't even cross his mind until he's already in bed, and by then, he's too tired to get up and find a bottle. He feels strange for awhile, and it does take a long time, but finally, sleep does come. He drifts off, thinking of all the different ways in which he can organize resources for this new project.

Enjolras has done research before, even research of this kind, but never before has he come across such a paucity of information. The one existing county-wide directory for social services is extremely confusing and at least seven years out of date, and no one seems to have any idea of how to create a new one. 

It's incredibly frustrating. Each time Enjolras comes across new information, he has to back-check several times to make sure it's valid, and not just another expired trivia or hoax. Sometimes, he gets lucky and finds a good, legitimate resource, and he adds it to his slowly-growing list, but more often, he stumbles on a dead end and has to start all over again. 

Still, it's meaningful work, maybe not the most overtly rewarding, but definitely worth it. It's easier to keep focused on this, too, since it's something that can tangibly help people. Although it's not interesting in the same way that schoolwork is, it has its own fascination. Enjolras keeps working, a little bit each day, if he can, and before too long, he has a whole folder full of helpful (and reliable) information. 

His friends help, too. Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Grantaire do indeed collect some useful references from their contacts, which Enjolras incorporates into his data, and once the others hear about what's going on, they become determined to help as well, and start fishing around their respective domains to find little nuggets of information that could be of use. Some of them are, and some of them are less so (Jehan's recommendation of some of the best drug dealers in the area is politely but firmly refused), but all of them are appreciated. Enjolras knows he's incredibly lucky to have friends like this. 

Strangely enough, although Enjolras is busier than he was before, it seems easier to accomplish everything. Often, he tells himself to finish his schoolwork early, so he can have time to do a little research afterwards. It's still not exactly efficient; he often goes to bed after 2 anyway. But at least now it's nominally because he's busy, and not just because he's too ill to move. 

And so, as he works on, time goes by. Before too long, exams are over (he honestly doesn't know how he gets through, only that he does, and that somehow, inexplicably, he finishes the quarter like everyone else) and winter break is rearing its hoary head. 

Enjolras doesn't think he's accomplished much this quarter. His grades haven't been that good, his volunteer hours have been scarcer than he'd like, and most of all, he's made his friends worry about him far too much. What's astonishing, though, is not any of this, but the fact that he's made it through alive. It's not much, and he's not as happy about it as he knows he probably should be, but it's something of an accomplishment anyway. 

Well. It's a start. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so legit if anyone reading this is experiencing problems like Lila does, my part-time job involves doing the resource thing, so if y'all are in the SB county/LA county area, I can hook u up so slide into them DMs yooooo


	11. Chapter 11

Winter break is second only to summer break in terms of unbearableness. 

It's three whole weeks of being home, three weeks of being poked and manipulated and disrespected, three weeks of torture. The only thing that can be said for it is that it gives Enjolras more of an excuse to stay in his room (when he can), but even at school, he’s doing quite a bit of that anyway. No, winter break is pretty much all bad. 

At this time last year, Enjolras had been in the hospital, and two years ago, he'd managed to finagle an invitation to Courfeyrac's house, so he hasn't actually had the real down-home experience for awhile. But now, his parents are adamant that he come back, and lacking any recourse, he's been forced to agree. It’s two years overdue, but now he’s coming home. 

It's intolerable. 

The last day of finals finds Enjolras packing his bags and trying to figure out the metro schedule back to Orange County. None of his friends can give him a ride; Bossuet is flying back to NorCal, having booked his ticket three months in advance to avoid problems and still somehow finding some anyway, Courfeyrac and Bahorel are headed off to Greece together on an unfortunately (or maybe fortunately) timed case, Jehan is going to visit their family in San Diego, and the others are staying more or less in the Los Angeles area. It feels lonely. Enjolras would never want to subject his friends to the horror of his parents, and of course he wants them all to be happy, but he can't help feeling like he's facing his doom alone. 

At least, the others are sympathetic. They all insist on getting his address and home phone number "just in case" (in case of what, they don't specify), and they send him off with lots of hugs and kisses and promises to give daily updates of how things are going. Montparnasse and Eponine solemnly present him with a tiny knife and tell him to keep it on him at all times. 

"It's not hard to use," says Eponine. "It's the same model as the first one I got for Gavroche."

"Ah," sighs Montparnasse, reminiscing. "Wasn't that for his seventh birthday?"

"Sixth, I thought. That was when I got my first one."

"Right, right. How time flies."

"Text me as soon as you arrive," says Cosette. "I want to know that you're safe." Enjolras makes a face at her. 

"I'd be safer if I wasn't there."

"Aww, I know. But still. Keep me updated."

Enjolras tries to dawdle a little more, but he can't put off the inevitable, so finally, with a last, sad look at Westwood and all its beauty, he calls his Uber and heads off to Union Station. 

The trip is surprisingly uneventful. He only gets lost twice, which is surprising, and fortunately, the only time someone flirts with him is when he makes the mistake of taking his headphones off on the train. The man who asks him out even takes his refusal somewhat graciously. 

He almost wishes he'd had more difficulty, or at least been delayed in some way, because that way, he could put off his most-dreaded arrival. Sadly, though, everything moves like clockwork, so before he's even had a chance to brace himself for impact, he's being welcomed back.

"It's good to see you, finally," his mom tells him once she's given him the perfunctory welcome-home hug, somehow sounding condescending and accusatory at the same time. "I assume you had an exam on the last day?"

He hadn't. Everything had been finished by Tuesday. But as long as finals week had posed an excuse, he'd been content to stay in Westwood, where things were safer. Now, he makes some sort of half-shrug (the kind his parents hate because it looks sloppy and unrefined).

"I had stuff to do."

" _Stuff_ , I see. And was this 'stuff' more important than coming back to see your family?"

"I mean, I had to finish. I couldn't just leave it."

"Hmm." His mom gives him a once-over, now, head-to-toe evaluation. "You know, you really must have been busy. Clearly, you haven't had time to eat properly."

Enjolras feels the familiar lead weight drop into his stomach. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, look at you." She turns to his dad for support. "Dear, don't you think he's looking a little… different?"

His dad grabs at him, and he knew it was only a matter of time, of course, but it's still like physical contamination. He stands rigidly while his dad pats him down, too uncomfortable even to breathe. This is torture, it's awful, and he's going to be gone in the next few minutes if this doesn't let up soon.

"You do seem a bit _different_ ," his dad says, finally pulling away (though his eyes haven't stopped roving). "What have you been doing with your time?"

"Just– work, and…”

"Work?"

"Schoolwork, I mean, and volunteering–”

"Hmm. What about a job?"

Ridiculously, Enjolras realizes that they're still standing in the foyer. The thought makes him laugh. He hasn't even taken his coat off yet, and the Failure Talk has already begun. His parents are just like him (or how he used to be); unwilling to waste even a moment of time. 

It's only when his mom clears her throat sharply at him that he realizes he hasn't answered. Right, right. He needs to be complicit, or they can't call him a failure.

"No, I haven't gotten a job."

"Have you tried?"

"No, I haven't tried."

"And your friends, they don't want to help you?"

"I haven't asked them."

"Don't you want to get ahead?"

"I do."

"Then why aren't you doing anything to advance yourself?"

It's a puppet show. Enjolras is his parents' personal marionette, lifeless until they tug at his strings, and never as good as a real person in any conceivable way. He imagines himself dancing across a stage in a sequined show outfit, jerkily trying to move to his parents' cues, and failing each time. And even so, he'll maintain his smile and his pretty face, because that's who he is, that's all he's good for, and nothing can ever change that, nothing can make it better–

"Enjolras, are you _crying_?"

Oh. 

"Yeah. I guess so."

"Why?" The _what's wrong with you_ goes unspoken, but Enjolras can hear it anyway. He catches a tear and looks at it with scientific interest.

"I don't know."

His mom puts a hand on his shoulder. He has to work hard not to flinch away from the touch, unremarkable though it is. Sometimes, it's just too much, especially with his parents. 

"You must be tired from exams. Why don't you go to your room? We'll call you for dinner."

It's a command, clearly. Don't leave the house, don't even think about hiding, and _especially_ don't try to avoid eating. As if any of it is needed. Enjolras is lifeless here.

He nods, carefully blank, and heads upstairs. His room isn't much of a refuge, and it's far from comfortable, but it's better than the rest of the house, at least. Time for the marionette to go back in his box for now.

\--

Things don't get better. Enjolras's parents aren't particularly religious, but they love the holidays, because it gives them a chance to throw parties, show off their wealth, and occasionally offer a halfhearted sop to charity, just to stay on the public A-list. Coincidentally, these are all things that Enjolras hates.

He doesn't have the energy to protest, though, even if he thought it would do any good (which he doesn't, because he seems to have left his belief in change back in Westwood), so he follows his parents around like a dutiful house pet, allowing himself to be prodded by every fawning socialite who sets eyes on him, mechanically making small talk that he forgets five seconds later, and wishing every moment for death. 

It's amazing how he gets through. 

Christmas comes and goes in a blur of empty vodka bottles and carefully-concealed razor wounds. Enjolras doesn't think he's been to so many pretentious, miserable parties since the time he got drunk and decided to Uber to USC's frat row. He lasts through most of them by shutting off inside and desperately attempting to think of anything but the tuxedoed Lotharios groping his ass, and it works just long enough to carry him back to his room, and into yet another bottle of drain-cleaner-nasty booze. 

It's still hardly tolerable. He legitimately thinks each new day might be his last. 

He calls his friends sometimes now. Somehow, phone calls don't seem so bad when they're a means of escape from libertine jail. He doesn't talk much about himself, or about anything, really, because he doesn't want to worry his friends, and sometimes talking seems like too much work anyway, but he listens to them go on about whatever they please, and it helps.

Often, too, he calls Grantaire before bed and asks him to talk him to sleep. Drinking himself into a semi-coma notwithstanding, it's one of the only ways he can get any rest. And Grantaire, bless him, is always happy to oblige. He turns on Skype and puts his laptop on the pillow next to him so that it almost feels like they're in bed together. Enjolras aches for lack of touch and intimacy, but for now, until he can be held again, it has to be enough. 

It doesn't feel like it, but according to the calendar, time is moving on. The new year comes wandering in, slow and foggy and lost in a (pardonably) drunken bout of chaos. Enjolras doesn't know what it will bring. The only time he was this apprehensive was when he was fighting for his life in the hospital, and that was a special kind of circumstance, because then, he was terrified to live for even another day.

Of course, this isn't exactly unsimilar. He still feels it, the clenching, numbing apprehension in his gut, raw and untamed and practically debilitating. And he feels the moment-by-moment agony of existing for any longer in his frustration, in his pain, in everything. This life is unbearable, suffocating as it is, so the thought of another year, unchanging as this one, is enough to blind the sun.

Maybe that's why he's so determined to change things, he thinks. The world is untenable as it is right now, so the only way to make things more tolerable is to act. But is that selfish? Is he trying to make things better just to appease his own hedonist self? Maybe Courfeyrac's uncle Paul was right after all.

Being at home works to intensify these dark thoughts. Enjolras always hates himself, but when he's at school, it's bearable, maybe because he has more to keep him busy. Here, he's so outright disgusted and outraged at his own existence that he has to actively struggle each day not to hurt himself (he always loses the battle, and does). He tapes paper over his mirrors, and never leaves his room unless he's drunk, but even so, simply existing is almost too much.

And then, finally, break is over.

Enjolras doesn't ask for a ride back to school; he doesn't think he could stand to drive with either of his parents for that long. And it's not like he has much to lose if he dies on the metro, anyway. So he packs his little bag and heads out as soon as he can, desperate to get away from the stagnation of his family home.

It takes way too long to get back. Enjolras is pretty sure he's romanticizing things, because there's no way his school life can really be as great as what he's looking forward to ( _you want to die more often than not_ , he tries to remind himself). But it doesn't make any difference, because no matter what his brain says, he can't stop looking forward to his return.

And in the end, it really is nice. Combeferre and Courfeyrac come to pick him up at Union Station, saving him from the choice of Uber fares or too-crowded public transportation. They argue good-naturedly over who should drive, and because Courfeyrac is a lawyer and is as persuasive as anything, he ends up in the back seat with Enjolras, cuddling him while Combeferre takes the freeway home. 

Grantaire comes to meet them at the apartment. Courfeyrac must have texted him, because Enjolras hadn't, feeling too guilty to ask to meet. But he's there, all right, smiling excitedly, and ready to scoop Enjolras out of the car and into his arms. 

"Welcome back," he sings. "I'm so glad to see you, Enjolras! I missed you so much."

Enjolras kisses at him weakly. "I missed you, too."

"Three weeks is a long time," says Combeferre. He gets out of the car and comes over, throwing his arms around Grantaire and Enjolras both. He's surprisingly stretchy when it comes down to it. "I'm so glad to see you. It's been awhile."

It really has. Enjolras closes his eyes, too caught up in relief to speak. It's just _so nice_ to be home. 

"Do you want to go out?" asks Combeferre, as they all head inside. Enjolras is a little sleepy and he does want to rest, but he wants to see his friends more. He shrugs.

"I could. What's going on?"

"Nothing special. It's just, I'm sure the others would want to see you if you're up for it."

Enjolras directs Grantaire over to the couch and makes him sit down. He climbs onto his lap, positioning both of them until he's comfortable. This right here, this is perfect. 

"I want to see them, too," he says. "But can I just rest here for a little bit?"

He doesn't think this is an especially adorable thing to say, but it makes Grantaire groan aloud and squish him to his chest, muttering about stupidly sweet cuteness. It's not like he's complaining, though, especially when he pushes his face up near his heart and feels its drumbeat running through him.

How safe and comfortable. He could probably definitely go to sleep right here.

"Are you sleeping?" asks Courfeyrac, as if reading his mind. He climbs onto the couch and pokes at him. "Enjolras! Wake up!"

Enjolras half-heartedly tries to swat him away. "Stop it. I'm awake."

"But are you really though?"

"Sort of."

"We don't have to go out," says Grantaire. "I think you're really comfortable like this, right? Why don't you just sleep for awhile?"

This is the best idea Enjolras has heard all day. He mumbles in sleepy happiness. "Love you."

"Aww, that was cute," says Courfeyrac. "I love you too, honey bunny."

"Wasn't talking to you."

"Oh, wow."

"No, just kidding. I do love you. All of you."

Combeferre and Courfeyrac swoop in to kiss him and pat him and tell him how cute he is. He doesn't mind at all, especially since he's been starved for this for three weeks, but finally he does flap his hand at them and ask to go to sleep. 

"I'll be up in twenty minutes. I just need to shut my eyes for a little while. Just to recharge, you know."

"Take all the time you need," says Courfeyrac. 

"I love you," adds Grantaire. "Sleep well, dear heart."

And Enjolras does.

\--

Now that the quarter is started and everything is in full swing once again, Enjolras has no excuse not to see his new psychiatrist. He books an appointment, unwillingly, it's true, but grateful that this Dr. Dahlia Lim (PsyD, MFT) doesn't require a phone interview. Theodule had, and he still bears the emotional scars. Anyway, it's not as bad as it could be. There's a form to fill out online, and that makes things easier.

Dr. Lim (or Dahlia, as she insists on being called) gets him in almost immediately. Maybe his email had sounded desperate, or maybe she's just not a very popular doctor, but either way, he finds himself in her waiting room within a week's time, swinging his feet on the oversized chair, and wondering whether or not to make a break for it. Joly's his chaperone today, and he's probably a little easier to evade than Combeferre would be, unless he decides to throw his cane like a javelin or something. 

But this is conjecture. Dahlia herself comes out, right on time, and beckons Enjolras back, with a kind, genuine smile. She doesn't try to touch him like Theodule had, which is a relief, and her office is warm and comfortable. 

"Sit down," she says. "Can I offer you some tea?"

Enjolras shakes his head. He's too shy. Dahlia nods, accepting this, and sits down across from him. Instead of reaching for a notepad, she just folds her hands neatly on her lap.

"So, you're Enjolras," she says.

It's not really a yes-no question, but Enjolras nods awkwardly anyway. He's about to make a fool of himself, and he knows it. "I go to UCLA," he blurts out. 

He'd just wanted to anticipate her next question, but now that he's said it, it sounds kind of stilted and weird. Darn it. This is exactly the sort of thing he can't do.

"Sorry," he says. It just makes things worse. Dahlia purses her lips in what's probably either sympathy or judgmental hatred. 

"Why are you sorry?"

"Oh, well. I was awkward, so…”

"It's all right. I can tell you're very nervous. Please don't worry, and don't feel that you have to apologize for anything, okay?"

That's easy for her to say. Still, it's nice, so Enjolras nods and tries to smile. "Thank you."

"It's my job, dear."

Enjolras isn't sure where to go from here. Is this the part where he asks about her? Wait, no. That's not right. This is his session, so he's supposed to talk about himself. That's the hardest out of everything, but that's okay. He can do this.

"Um, so. I just got back from break."

"Is that so?" Dahlia nods encouragingly at him. "How was it? Tell me everything."

"It was good," says Enjolras, unthinkingly slipping into social platitudes. But then, remembering that he doesn't have to do that here, he changes direction in a rush of words. "Actually, no. It was terrible. My parents are so awful, and I know I shouldn't judge, but they're _mean_ , and so are the people they hang around with, and they make me feel horrible about myself, and it's hell, it really is. I don't know how I managed to live there in high school, because even three weeks of it now were almost too much."

Dahlia clucks her tongue. "Poor thing. How did you deal with it?"

"Uh." 

This is the precipice. It's the part where Enjolras either lets her into his confidence, or makes some excuse and fritters away the rest of the time. He hadn't expected the choice to come so early in the session, so he's unprepared. Should he trust Dahlia or not, that's what it comes down to, and as of yet, he doesn't know. 

"I did some things," he says.

"Hmm, okay. Well, did it help?"

Okay, so she's not the type to pry when he's obviously uncomfortable. That's good. He likes that. Maybe he can trust her just a bit.

"Sort of. I mean, it wasn't very healthy. But it helped me get through, I think."

"I see. Temporary measures, then?"

"Um, I guess. But not really. Because I don't just do these things at home. I do them all the time."

"Ah."

It's not a disapproving _ah_ , or at least Enjolras doesn't think it is, but he doesn't know how to classify it, so he assumes it must be bad. He starts to fidget.

"I know it's not good. I shouldn't be like this. Um, I'm sorry. I don't want to be an annoyance for you."

"No, you're not an annoyance at all. Remember, this is my job."

"But I'm doing bad–”

"It's all right. Take a breath."

"What?"

"Don't talk for a second. Just breathe. Breathe with me."

This wasn't what Enjolras had been expecting, but he tries anyway. At first, it's hard to take deep breaths. He hadn't realized how close he'd been to hyperventilating.

Fortunately, Dahlia helps him by patiently breathing with him and not trying to speak until he's breathing more or less normally and isn't twitching around quite so much. And he really does feel calmer, now that he thinks about it, less ready to fly into millions of brittle little shards. Who would have thought?

"There we go." Dahlia smiles now, gentle and affectionate. "You're doing great, Enjolras. I know this is scary."

It is, and the kind words mean everything, but Enjolras is still too embarrassed and shy to accept them. He ducks his head, knowing that he's blushing, and unable to do anything about it. 

"Thank you," he squeaks out. His voice is about a fifth too high. Dahlia smiles again (or maybe she's been smiling all along; he couldn't really say). 

"I mean it. So. What would you like to talk about today? Any pressing issues, any immediate worries...?"

Is _I constantly want to die_ a pressing issue? Enjolras decides that it's not. He shakes his head. "You can choose."

Dahlia looks like she was expecting this. "All right," she says. "Well, usually, I like to get to know the people I talk with. I think it's important to find out what your beliefs are, and how you think, and what's important to you and so on. So, is it all right with you to talk about that?"

That's better than expected. Theodule hadn't cared in the slightest. In fact, he had usually been the one trying to impose his own views. Enjolras finds his voice.

"I would like that."

"Good." Dahlia stands up and moves to her kitchen area (really just a glorified countertop) and begins to pull things out of the cabinet. "I'm going to make a pot of tea. Please have some if you like. I always think it helps loosen up the throat. Now, let's talk."

\--

Fifty minutes later, Enjolras wanders out of Dahlia's office, dazed. He's never had an appointment like this, not even at the hospital, which, up until now, had been the standard of psychological excellence in his life. Dahlia had been so kind and accepting, but more than that, she had listened, _really_ listened. She had made the appointment all about him. And she hadn't even made him feel guilty about it. It's weird, but Enjolras feels better than he had going in today.

He finds Joly in the waiting room and goes over to sit next to him, still a little out of it. "I'm all done," he says.

"Oh!" Joly looks up from his phone, nervous smile fixed on his face. "How was it? How do you feel? Are you…?”

"It was good," Enjolras tells him. Something in his tone must be convincing, because Joly looks positively delighted.

"I'm so happy! You made it through, and it was good, and I'm so proud of you. You're a star."

"I didn't do much.”

"My little shooting star!"

Enjolras uncomplainingly allows himself to be embraced and patted and kissed on the face (Joly is one to dispense with affection frequently and flamboyantly). It's nice, actually. He soaks up love like a sponge in any way that it's offered to him, and appreciates it more than he can say. 

"Thank you," he says, once Joly has pulled away enough to let him speak. It's not enough, and it really doesn't express a fraction of what he's feeling, but it must be all right, at least, because Joly squeals happily once again.

"Of course, you dear little thing! You're such a treasure. This is why we're here, you know!"

"I love you," Enjolras stutters. He's awkward, and so is this, but that's okay. At least he managed to say it.

Joly bodily picks him up and spins him around the room, much to the dismay of the other patients, and the receptionist, who tells him to sit down and be quiet. This doesn't embarrass Joly at all, but Enjolras goes red all over and has to hide his face in his coat until everyone is done staring at them, and he can finish filling out his paperwork without wanting to dissolve. Finally, though, he's done, and after booking an appointment for next week, much less unwillingly than he would have thought, he follows Joly out to the car, thrumming with success.

Look at that. He had a good therapy appointment. Wonders will never cease. 

\--

Things aren't any easier after that, necessarily, but they're more familiar, at least, maybe a bit more comfortable. Enjolras continues going to his biweekly appointments with Dahlia, quite faithfully, really. Eventually, his friends even stop fussing and insisting on driving him there and back each time. 

In addition to this, Dahlia sets him up with a new course of medication. It's scary at first, since he's had a lot of allergic reactions in the past, but fortunately, this one doesn't seem to have any adverse effects on him. It doesn't seem to have any good ones, either. It's just kind of there. Dahlia explains that this is how it works; it's so subtle that its effects can't be felt until they're present.

Which is okay. Enjolras hadn't been expecting much. He takes his medication, and he goes to his appointments, and he studies the material from the health classes that Dahlia recommends (he's too shy and anxious to physically attend them, but he figures that as long as he gets the information, that's a good start), and he tries not to complain, even on days when he can't stand inhabiting a body at all, much less discussing it in positive terms.

It's all a lot of work. Sometimes he can't make the effort. Then, too, it seems all-too-often that he's doing something useless, plugging away at something that will make no difference, and that it's nothing short of selfish and arrogant to try. It's frustrating and discouraging, and he hates himself for it no matter what happens.

But he's stubborn, even in the face of futility. And it seems like everyone around him believes in him, though he couldn't say why, so he tries his best, even when it barely seems like anything at all. _Do what you can_ , isn't that the motto? Enjolras doesn't know if his humble efforts are even worth mentioning, but somehow, strangely, he's a little proud of himself anyway.

Maybe it all helps. Enjolras knows it's supposed to. He just can't quantify it. If he still filled out those Burns charts, maybe, or submitted to the endless forms of mental assessments offered in the hospital, maybe then it would be easier to tell. But he doesn't, and honestly, he can't really tell a difference in his mental state from day to day. 

But it must be something. One day, he wakes up, and he doesn't immediately want to kill himself, so he gets out of bed and goes to brush his teeth, feeling surprisingly willing to get on with the day. He'd had some of the Thoughts, but instead of immediately reaching for a razor, he'd tried one of Dahlia's talk-back techniques, and surprisingly, it had sort of worked. It's not a miracle or anything; he doesn't feel _healthy_ by any means. But he's functional for now, and that's a start.

It's a good day for it. He's meeting up with everyone later, ostensibly because it's a Thursday and they haven't been out in awhile, but really because Courfeyrac, Cosette, and Marius want to show off their brand-new relationship to the group. They've been trying to keep it lowkey, which is nearly impossible for Courfeyrac (he gushes to Enjolras and Combeferre nearly non-stop at home), but maybe there's some optimism floating through the air or something, because now they're ready to take it to the next level. 

Enjolras is happy for them. He hadn't really considered them as a trio before things got really obvious, but he knows he can chalk that up to his general obliviousness and social ineptitude, and not to any lack of compatibility on their part. He has a hard time picking up on these things. No matter how much he loves his friends (and he loves them a _lot_ ), there are some things that he's just not good at, and emotional intelligence is one of them. This is exciting, though. He's beyond happy that it all worked out for them. 

After finishing class for the day, Enjolras comes back to the apartment to get ready with Combeferre. Courfeyrac is out, probably pregaming with his significant others, but that's just as well. It’s cute that they’re having some quality time together before they meet up with everyone else. 

Even though it's a happy occasion, though, Combeferre seems perturbed, and he's unusually quiet as he does his hair. Usually, he'd be talking about his day, or the paper he'd just read, or some kind of erudite theory on electron spin resonance, but now, he barely responds to the questions that Enjolras puts forth. Enjolras can't help but worry, so he comes over and rests his head against his shoulder. 

"What's wrong, 'Ferre?"

"Nothing," says Combeferre, but he's always been a bad liar, so Enjolras elbows him in the side.

"None of that. Something's bothering you. I can tell."

Combeferre finishes his hair. He steps away from the mirror and sits down on the bed with a floof and a sigh. "It shouldn't be a big deal."

"Come on. Aren't you always the one telling me that whatever I feel is valid?" 

“Tricky. Okay, fine. But don't say I didn't warn you."

Enjolras plops down next to him. He's making his best encouraging face (which he's practiced in the mirror rather often, because he's been told that he looks too marble-like when people tell him things), and it seems to work. Combeferre starts to talk, clumsily, but with great emotion. 

"It's silly, I know. But this new relationship thing, Courfeyrac and Marius and Cosette, it made me realize… this sounds bad, so I'm sorry, please bear with me. I think… I'm jealous. They have each other, and you have Grantaire, and Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta have each other… I just sort of feel like a loner or something, you know?"

"Oh no, 'Ferre." Enjolras takes his hand and presses it. "I'm so sorry. I had no idea you felt this way!"

"I tried not to make too big of a deal out of it. It's ridiculous. I shouldn't even be feeling it."

"It's okay, though. You can't help how you feel."

"But it's petty. I have all of you, and I know I'm good on my own, so why should I need romance?"

Enjolras has to think about this one. "I don't know," he says finally. "You know I'm not the best with these things. But I do know that you shouldn't be mad at yourself for feeling this way. There's nothing wrong with it at all."

"Isn't there, though?" Combeferre finally looks up. His eyes are black holes, and his mouth is all bunched up on one side like he can't remember how to hold his face. "Enjolras, don't lie to save my feelings or anything. You _know_ I'm being petty and annoying. I'm taking everyone's happiness and ruining it, and I'm making this occasion all about me when I really have no business doing so. It's despicable."

"Oh no. Hey, shh, come here."

Enjolras wraps his arms around Combeferre's waist and leans in as close as he can (which is pretty close, since he's good at sticking up tight). He's too small to completely envelope Combeferre in a big, thorough, comforting embrace like he desperately wants to, but he figures being a teddy bear is the next best thing, so this should be okay. Combeferre certainly seems to think so. He all but collapses onto Enjolras, clutching him almost tightly enough to hurt. 

"Don't lie to me," he says again.

"I wouldn't. You know I wouldn't."

It's true. Enjolras will lie about his mental state, and his comfort, and his ability to take on more than he really can or should, but that's it. He's truthful to the core about things that matter. And this, this matters.

"You're not despicable," he says into Combeferre's shoulder. "And it's not wrong to feel bad. I mean, I don't want you to, of course, but if you do, that's okay. Whatever you feel is okay."

"I just can't help but think that I'm being stupid." 

The words have a chilling gravitas. Enjolras can't help but stiffen, because Combeferre _never_ describes anything as stupid, not unless he's really, really far gone. To him, stupidity is anathema, almost in a playground way (Enjolras can still see glimpses of a baby Combeferre, solemnly proclaiming stupidity as a curse). This must be practically insurmountable for him.

"No," Enjolras begins, but Combeferre cuts him off.

"Come on. You've never felt like this, right?"

"Well, no, but…”

"I'm a freak. And, and Enjolras, you've dated people. In high school."

"That's high school. It was years ago. And it barely counted as _dating_ anyway."

"But you still had that. I never did."

Enjolras isn't sure what to say. He knows that Combeferre has never had a significant other, but he hadn't known that it bothered him so much. It's hard to provide comfort from Enjolras's perspective, because he himself has a boyfriend, and the memories of experiences in his teenage years (not that they're extensive by any means, but this probably doesn't make a difference). So he pulls away just enough to look Combeferre in the eye and takes his hands instead of cuddling against him.

"But does that matter? Honestly, you weren't missing much. Just a bunch of horny high school boys who use too much tongue and don't know what a clitoris is. It's not like the movies."

"But I'd still like to have experienced it." Combeferre looks down, unable to meet Enjolras's eyes. "You know, I still haven't even kissed anyone."

"Oh, 'Ferre. You know there's no shame in that."

"No, but… it still hurts. When you're all so experienced, and I'm the only one who hasn't done _anything_ … even Jehan has fooled around, for God's sake. And they're aro-ace."

"I'm so sorry. This must be hard for you." 

Enjolras is out of his depth. He needs Courfeyrac, or Joly, or someone who's good with this sort of thing, because he doesn't know what to say, or how to say it, and he doesn't want to hurt Combeferre any more than he probably has already by parading his relationship around. 

More than this, though, he wants to help. Combeferre is his best friend, his closest and dearest companion, and for him to be sad is unthinkable. Clumsy though Enjolras might be, he still has to try.

"I'm sorry," he says again. "Please, is there anything I can do? Anything at all?"

"No," Combeferre says, too slowly. Enjolras fixes him with a look. 

"Come on."

"No, no. It's nothing."

"Then if it's nothing, it should be no problem to tell me, right?" Combeferre doesn't look like he understands, so Enjolras presses on. "Really, I'm here for you. Do you want to stay in tonight? Because I'm down for that."

"Well,”

"Really."

"Okay. Well. Since you asked, yes. I know it's selfish, but I just don't think I can go out and act genuinely happy when I'm feeling this way. But you don't have to stay with me. You should go out and have fun, dance a little, have a good time."

Enjolras climbs onto Combeferre's lap. It's half to comfort him and half to keep him from getting up and fluttering around the room in distress. Maybe this way, he'll stay a little more calm.

"It's okay," Enjolras says. "Really, 'Ferre. We'll have a night in. It'll be nice."

"Right. You can hang out with me and my insecurities, the couple of the year."

Enjolras has rarely heard Combeferre sound so bitter. It's weird, _wrong_ , like they've taken a field trip into the Twilight Zone or something. He gets up and starts changing into house clothes (stolen from Combeferre's dresser, because big shirts are always the most comfortable), and looks pointedly at Combeferre when he doesn't do the same.

"Well? Aren’t you going to get comfy too?”

“I…” 

Shaking himself out of a daze, Combeferre gets up and starts changing. He's clearly still upset, but if he can take action like this, it's a good sign. Then, too, once he's all bundled in sweatpants and flannel, he looks a little more grounded, and he even goes so far as to tease Enjolras for stealing all his clothes. 

"You have pajamas of your own, you know!"

Enjolras bats his eyes in fake innocence. "Sharing is caring, 'Ferre."

Even though it wasn't a particularly witty or clever remark, Combeferre laughs, and hugs him, and lets it go. Maybe he can't completely joke around right now, but he isn't too far gone to appreciate a little bit of lightheartedness, either.

They end up wedged into Combeferre's bed together, drinking herbal tea and watching a documentary on beetles. Combeferre likes bugs a lot. Enjolras texts the others to tell them what's going on, and then puts his phone away, determined to keep Combeferre first and foremost in his attention tonight.

It's good that he does. Two hours into the documentary, Combeferre interrupts a monologue on mating habits by breaking down in tears and burying his face in the pillow. Enjolras quickly closes his laptop and turns all his attentions to his weeping friend.

"Are you okay? What's wrong?"

"The, the beetles," Combeferre gets out. "Enjolras, they have– even beetles have other beetles to love."

If it were anyone else saying it, Enjolras might be tempted to laugh. It's a funny statement. But Combeferre is utterly serious, devastatingly so. He doesn't cry that often, preferring to deal with his emotions in other ways, but when he does, it's like this, stormy and loud and dramatic, and prompted by completely random things. Enjolras puts a hand on his back.

"It's okay! You know, even some beetles don't find mates until later. Like– like Coleoptera…”

His taxonomy gives out here, but fortunately, Combeferre doesn't seem to notice. He looks up, teary-eyed.

"Enjolras, you're the sweetest, most caring person I know, but don't try to give me false assurances. I know I'm never going to find anyone."

"How do you know? You're so wonderful, how could you not?”

"Please don't give me that." Combeferre's voice is resigned now. "If I'm really that great, I would have had _something_ by now, even if it was just a one night stand or something."

"Really? You want that?"

Combeferre ignores the shred of incredulity in Enjolras's voice (because really, he is a little incredulous). He looks away, thoughtful.

"You know, I thought after high school, when I became a little better-looking, maybe I would find someone. But no. It's just me."

"But… have you _tried_?"

“Well, no.”

"Then?"

"I shouldn't have to!" Combeferre has to take a second before he can continue, too overwhelmed with emotion as he is. Enjolras pats him on the back and doesn't push. But finally, “You never have to try," he says. "People are always falling all over you. And I know you don't like it, and I know I shouldn't envy you for that, but you're so pretty and charming, and everyone loves you–”

"Everyone wants to fuck me," Enjolras cuts in dryly. "There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Um, yes, there is. You can't really be telling me that you want creepy perverts to objectify and dehumanize you wherever you go?"

"I guess not. But that can't be it, either. I know people like you for more than just your looks."

Enjolras thinks about it. It's true, one of the reasons he's always had trouble making and keeping friends is that people inevitably either fall in love with him, or get jealous of all the attention he receives and step away, and this, definitely, goes deeper than his physical appearance. It's not like he blames them (because, really, he can't see any advantage to being friends with him, so it's probably all the better for them), but it's not something he particularly enjoys, either. So he huffs softly and makes a face.

"You're not missing anything. I promise. There's literally nothing good about all this attention."

"But you get to judge that for yourself. I just have to take your word for it."

Enjolras is trying to be patient and understanding. He knows that not everyone shares his experiences, and his words only go so far. And Combeferre is a scientist; he likes to have real proof. But at the same time, how could Combeferre possibly _want_ the full Enjolras Experience?

It's awful, honestly, not being able to go anywhere without being approached (even on his worst days), knowing that most people will inevitably leave him out of jealousy or insecurity, never being sure if someone genuinely likes him, or just wants to date him. And then there are the judgements, the rumors, the groundless prejudices directed his way because he's a pretty little blond and he commands attention whether he wants to or not and when he smiles, he's flirty, and when he doesn't, he's coy, and nothing he can do will persuade the world not to hate him.

So he frowns and chews on the inside of his cheek, trying not to say anything that would hurt Combeferre's feelings, but unable to fully let this go.

"Listen," he says finally. "I know this is hard for you. But believe me, you wouldn't like to live like I do, either. What about somewhere in the middle? Like, like Eponine?"

"What? Like Eponine?"

"Yeah! She's pretty, but she looks scary, so she doesn't have to be worried like I do. A few people approach her, but not that many. And she also goes out and puts herself out there, so she always has people in her life. It seems like a good balance for her."

Combeferre seems to be thinking about this. Or at least, Enjolras hopes he's thinking about it, and not something more depressing, like his lack of a sexual and romantic love life, or the behavior of that one weird beetle that they saw onscreen earlier. He frowns a bit, thoughtful, and scratches his ear a few times, looking for all the world like an absent-minded professor working on some sort of theoretical problem. Enjolras feels a tug of deep affection in his chest. If he could make it so Combeferre never felt bad again, he would do it in an instant. 

"What do you think?" he asks finally.

"I think you're right."

"Really?"

"Yeah. It's not like I can really expect anything to happen if I don't try for it, right?"

Enjolras hadn't expected to persuade him so easily. He tugs at his sleeve. "You really think so? You're not just saying that?"

"No." Combeferre smiles now, and it's stretched thin, a little weary, and a little sad, but there's a light in it, too. "You're right, Enjolras. I haven't been thinking this through clearly. I think I was keeping it in my head too long, and not giving the idea room to breathe."

"Feedback is good," Enjolras agrees, because he believes firmly in the power of assessment, like the good little academic that he is. But he's still not completely convinced. "You're okay, though, 'Ferre? You don't feel sad?"

"I guess I do a little bit." Combeferre scratches his ear, thinking. "I mean, I don't want to go out and party with the others. And I'm still not fully back to myself. But it helped to talk this over with you. You're a good listener."

"Oh!" An unexpected compliment! Enjolras blushes (he can't really help it) and twirls his hair around one finger, looking down at the floor. "Um, thank you. But I didn't really do anything."

"You did, though. You helped."

"I helped?"

"You did." Combeferre pulls him close and tucks him underneath his arm, safe and warm. Enjolras feels like a baby chick. "I'm so lucky to have you. I can't even tell you how happy I am that you're here."

"Aww."

Enjolras isn't really sure what to say to this, but it's so cute, and it makes his whole body feel like it's glowing. He smiles, letting his eyes fall shut.

"You're like a vanilla latte, 'Ferre."

"Thank– wait, what?"

"Warm."

There's more to it than that, but this will suffice for now. Certainly, Combeferre seems touched. He drops a kiss on Enjolras's forehead, not even laughing at the presentation of this rather out-of-the-blue comparison. 

"I love you, sunshine."

"I love you, too. I love you a latte."

"Oh my god. You dork."

Combeferre laughs and groans and jostles Enjolras lightly, and Enjolras beams up at him, pleased with himself. 

"I mean it, though."

"I know you do. And I do, too."

The evening turns soft and sweet after that. There's no more crying, no more desperation, or outright misery. Enjolras and Combeferre finish watching their beetle documentary and turn on a new video on trains, and at some point, Enjolras falls asleep with his head pillowed on Combeferre's chest. The half-dreamt thoughts that flash across his fading consciousness are kind, for once, soft and round somehow, instead of harsh. It doesn’t hurt to drift away, and so he does, easy like a dream.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: misgendering, bad language, insensitive talk about mental illness, forced hospitalization, suicidal ideation

The veneer of fragile constructed stability shatters abruptly around midterm time.

Enjolras, stressed and absorbed with studying, forgets every mechanism of self-care he'd ever learned, and lapses back into his days of alcoholism and self-harm. He can't even seek help from Dahlia, because she's off at an international conference, and won't be back until next month. He stops working on the DBT packets, and he stops trying actively to help himself, and before he knows it, he’s back to where he was before. Logistically speaking, it's not substantially worse than it had been a few days ago, but it's enough to make Combeferre look at him cross-eyed whenever he emerges from his room.

Combeferre isn't the only one to worry. The day after Enjolras's first midterm, Montparnasse comes over to visit. He's impeccably dressed as always, but there's a persistent crease between his manicured eyebrows, and he keeps twisting his rings and playing with his necklace.

"I need to talk to you," he says in lieu of a greeting. 

Enjolras blinks up at him, immediately concerned. "What's wrong?"

Montparnasse takes Enjolras into his room and shuts the door. He sits down on the bed, tension seeping out of every pore. Enjolras sits next to him and puts a hand on his arm in hopes of easing some of that frightening rigidity. 

"Talk to me," he says.

Montparnasse is quiet for a second. Then, he bows his head. "I'm sorry, Enjolras. I thought I should warn you before anyone else. It’s– it’s… Please don't be upset?"

"You're scaring me, 'Parnasse." Enjolras paws at his sleeve. He needs some indication that things aren't as bad as he feels they're probably about to be. "What's going on? Please tell me."

"Your parents." With this out of the way, the words burst forth explosively. "Enjolras, I'm so sorry. I heard it before, but I thought it might be a rumor, but now I realize it's true, I… I'm sorry. They want to pull you out of school and take you back to live with them permanently, or at least until you're a little healthier. I didn't want it to be true, but my sources are reliable, and… Enjolras? Are you okay?"

Enjolras feels very cold and slow. He lifts a hand to inspect, moving as if through jelly. "What do you mean?"

His voice sounds strange to his ears. Maybe he's not actually talking. Or, maybe he's not real. He slaps himself on the arm, just like he does when he breaks a rule, trying to see if it will hurt. It doesn't, somehow. Interesting. He tries again, and again. 

"Wake up," he says. 

"You're awake." Montparnasse takes his hands and holds them around the wrists. "Stop that. Hey, listen."

"I'm not real."

"Yes, you are. I promise, you're real."

Enjolras's head feels way too heavy. He lets it loll to the side, eyes unfocused and glossy. He's still so cold, and no matter what Montparnasse says, he can't believe that he actually exists. And talking is too difficult, so he can't express these concerns and ask for help to make things even marginally better.

Fortunately, Montparnasse seems to realize what's going on. He lets go of Enjolras's hands, only to reach around him and take him into his arms. Faintly, Enjolras is aware that he's a little cuddlier than he was before. Maybe he's been practicing. The thought makes him laugh aloud. 

"You're warmer," he says between giggles.

"What?" Montparnasse begins to pat him all over, maybe trying to find the source of this mirth. "Enjolras, you're going into hysterics or something. What's happening? This is weird."

Enjolras can't answer. He's too busy laughing, or maybe, he's crying, actually, but whatever it is, he can't control it. In fact, he can barely breathe. He lays his head against Montparnasse's shoulder, trembling with laugh-sobs. Montparnasse is right, this is weird, but he can't really do anything about it. 

"I'm dying," he manages finally. 

"No, honey, you're not dying. You're here, and you're fine. Can you hear me? You're fine." 

Enjolras can hear him, but it's hard to comprehend much beyond the sickening coldness in his chest, and the horrible tears that won't stop, no matter how hard he tries. He flaps his free hand desperately. 

"I'm dying."

"Hush, you're not dying. I'll keep you safe, see?"

That's hard to reply to. Enjolras pushes his face into Montparnasse's coat, reaching for darkness and muted comfort, and for something to warm him up. It helps a little, but only enough to thaw out some of the numbness in his chest, and make him realize just how fast his heart is beating. Is he going into shock? Maybe this is the end.

"'Parnasse, help," he whimpers.

"I have you, I have you." Montparnasse puts a hand on the back of his head, anchoring him in place. "Shh, it's okay. It's okay, babydoll. They're not going to get you."

"They want me."

"I know. But I won't let them near you. It's okay."

Enjolras doesn't really see how this could be. How can Montparnasse possibly do anything? On the other hand, if there's anyone who could stand up to Enjolras's parents, it would be him, so maybe he's telling the truth after all. It's hard to tell. Enjolras decides to go with it for now. He grips the front of Montparnasse's shirt.

"Make it stop."

"Make what stop, sweetheart?"

"Everything. It's too much."

"Too much."

"Please?"

Montparnasse swallows hard. Enjolras can hear it. He's probably confused as to how he got in this situation– certainly, Enjolras wouldn't blame him– and he surely wants to leave. Enjolras tries to cobble together an apology, but before he can figure out anything coherent, Montparnasse shifts again, and speaks.

"I'm going to call someone, okay? I want to help, but I'm not very good at this. Can I get someone to come here for you?"

"You want to leave?"

"No, no. I'll stay with you. I just don't know what to do."

"You can leave." Enjolras tries and mostly succeeds in lifting his head. "You can. I'm okay."

"You're not okay. You're shaking, and… Look, I want to be here, okay? I want to make things better for you. But I don't know how."

 _Just be here_ , Enjolras wants to say. _Stay with me, hold me, help me feel like the world won’t devour me whole the second I make a wrong move_. There's so much he wants to say, wants to express, but it's all out of the scope of his current speech abilities, and even if it weren't, it's not the sort of thing he could ask. It's selfish, and he couldn't impose that on anyone. 

So he just whines softly and presses his face back down against Montparnasse's shoulder, stealing one more moment of semi-safety. He'll go in a minute. He _will_. Just, one tiny bit more, one more tick of comfort. Then he'll go. He really will.

Montparnasse doesn't seem to mind. He's either the most patient person in the world, or he really isn't bothered, because he continues to pet Enjolras and murmur comforting words to him. Enjolras doesn't really know what he's saying, because focusing his verbal brain is way too hard right now, but he knows that _whatever-it-is_ is helping. He can almost breathe now.

After awhile, Courfeyrac shows up at the apartment. Enjolras isn't sure if Montparnasse called him or if he's just coming home, but he's sort of happy anyway. Montparnasse is wonderful, there's no doubt of that. But Courfeyrac is his best friend (aside from Combeferre, who doesn't really count as such, because he's more like a soulmate), and he brings comfort wherever he goes. 

When he comes over to the couch and reaches his arms around Enjolras to enfold him in a tight hug, it's like being wrapped in warm cotton balls. Enjolras tucks himself up against the broad puffiness of his chest and lets himself relax. Certainly, things will be at least half-okay now.

The rest of the night goes by slowly. Enjolras is barely present, barely able to process what's going on around him, and maybe that's bad (he knows it is), but everything’s painful, and it's all he can do to lie still and not hurt himself. The thoughts won't stop running through his head, so bad that not even Courfeyrac can stop them. It's a time, all right, like the ones from weeks ago.

The thought is depressing. He must be backsliding again, back into the dark, misty doldrums of debilitating mental illness. No matter how hard he tries to recover, it never seems to work. Maybe he shouldn't even try; everything he does is obviously doomed to failure anyway. He curls into himself and tries not to think about anything, because any thought will turn dark right away, and finally, painfully, he drops into a dismal, light sleep. 

\--

It's good that Enjolras has just had his midterm, because he skips class the next day, unable to leave the house, or even get out of bed. It feels like there's something heavy and dark over him, pressing him down and holding him in place. Even trying to sit up is futile; all he can do is recline back on his pillows and take sips from the bottle of gin that he'd had the foresight to put on his bedside table the night before. 

And then, half-tipsy, he realizes. He had homework due today. He's just missed class, and now there's no chance to turn in his assignment, which, surprisingly, he'd managed to finish last night through a haze of wine and torpid attempts at productivity. 

He's going to get a zero. His grade is going to go down. He's going to fail the class. 

This can't be, though. He has to do well. He has to show his parents that he's being good, that he's not failing, that he shouldn't be pulled out of school and kept prisoner at home. They can't take him back if he's succeeding, can they?

Desperate, tears already springing in his eyes, he grabs his phone and opens up Google Docs. Maybe if he can forward his work to his professor in time, she'll take pity on him and allow him to get half credit or something. It's hard to type when his hands are shaking so badly, but finally he manages to write a coherent email and send it off, already imagining the look of disgust that it will probably elicit. His professor is generally kind and reasonable, but he can't think that she would be so for him. This is it. Failure.

Suddenly weak, Enjolras slumps back into his pillows. So he's failing everything, now, school, daily life, interpersonal relationships, probably, even his goddamn skincare routine. What's the point of trying? He's a fuckup, plain and simple, and he always will be.

He lies still for awhile, letting the knowledge wash over him, and thinking. It's not going to be pretty, what he's planning to do, but it'll be better than keeping to this course that he's been on his entire life. And maybe, just maybe, his friends will forgive him when he's gone. Carefully, almost clinically, he sits up once again, and reaches for his razor.

\--

He doesn't do it. Of course he doesn't. The universe isn't that kind.

Cosette comes sneaking into the room, trying to prank Courfeyrac by putting a Saran-wrapped block of tofu in his bed, and sees Enjolras sitting on a towel and carving at his thighs with a razor blade. It's almost comical, really. Her eyes get wide, and she drops the tofu on the floor, only it hits her on the foot instead. She doesn't seem to notice.

"Enjolras," she says. Her voice is too measured. "Honey, what are you doing?"

Enjolras looks up at her solemnly. "It's okay."

"No, it's not. No, it's fucking not." Cosette squats down in front of him and wrests the razor out of his hands. "Give me that, love. And that bottle, too. Don't you know that alcohol makes you bleed faster?"

"Yes."

Cosette folds her lips together. She doesn't look displeased, just stern, and like she's trying to contain her worry. It doesn't quite work; some of it slips through anyway. 

"Come here."

"What?"

"Come on, up. I'm taking you to CAPS."

"What? No, I don't want to. I'm fine. It's just a little scratch, see?"

"That doesn't matter. It's the fact that you're doing this at all that has me worried. Let's go; I know you don't want to go to the hospital."

Enjolras doesn't, but he doesn't want to go to the counseling center, either. He's never been there, since he doesn't have the university insurance, and it's scary. He shakes his head.

"It's okay. I'm okay. See? I'll go to class now."

He stands, but Cosette gets up too, and grabs him before he can get away. "Nope. I'm insisting, here. Put some pants on. We're going."

There's no arguing with her. Enjolras gets dressed and picks up his phone and mini backpack and meekly allows himself to be led out to the car. He'll just have to get through this, then, and when he gets back tonight, he'll be free to do what he wants.

CAPS is somehow both better and worse than he'd imagined. There are _people_ in there, and it's not like he'd been thinking it would be empty or anything, but he's still not prepared to deal with them. They all give him looks as he shuffles up to the front desk, even the receptionists, and it's all he can do not to turn around and run away.

"Sorry," he says as soon as he gets to the counter. The receptionist looks at him strangely.

"What?"

That just makes him want to apologize more. "Um, I'm, yeah. I'm sorry. I want to make an appointment."

"Have you done the intake survey?"

"No. I didn't know there was one." The receptionist sighs. Enjolras shrinks away. "I'm sorry. I can… I'll just go."

"No, it won't take you long. Here." The receptionist hands him an iPad and a stylus, and waves him over to the cramped seating area. "Fill that out, and give it to me when you're done. We'll set you up with an intake interview and get you an appointment based on that."

An interview? What, are they going to ask him what his greatest accomplishment in mental illness is or something? Weird.

He's too nervous to say anything, though, so he sits down and starts to fill out the survey forms. It's true, it doesn't take that long, but it's kind of awkward to do. _Please rate your desire for death_ , reads one question. Enjolras sticks out his tongue at the iPad. His desire for death is unquantifiable. 

The receptionist takes his iPad when he's done, and shoos him upstairs, still looking bored. He doesn't even look at him as he turns back to his computer screen. "Go on," he says. "Just wait upstairs. They'll call you."

Enjolras doesn't say a word. He takes himself up the seemingly-endless flight of stairs and perches on one of the couches that litter the upstairs waiting room, trying to ignore the looks he gets as he does so. He doesn't know any of these people, and he doesn't think they know him, but they don't look happy to see him here. They're probably mad that someone like him is taking up all their resources.

Which is fair. He doesn't think he should be here, either. 

"Enjolras?"

Enjolras jumps up, heart hammering away. That was so quick. It's time for his intake interview already, and he has no idea what to say. How do people act during times like these? 

"I'm Enjolras," he says, as if it weren't completely obvious and he weren't the only person standing up in the whole waiting room. But his new therapist smiles.

"Hi, my name's Katelyn, and I'll be talking with you. Please come with me."

Enjolras follows her down the hall and into a tiny office that's filled with papers and post-it notes, and for some reason, a giant teddy bear. Katelyn nods at him.

"Have a seat."

"I shouldn't be here," Enjolras blurts out, although he does sit down, because he's socially conditioned to do anything that medical professionals tell him. Katelyn raises an eyebrow.

"Oh? Why not?"

"I have a psychiatrist. She's not here right now, so I haven't seen her for awhile, but I can. Like, she exists."

Geez. Enjolras stops talking, wanting to slap himself, but not knowing if he could get away with it. Why is he so awkward? If only there was therapy for that.

Katelyn smiles at him, as if she finds his complete lack of social acuity charming. "I see. But you're not able to see her at the moment, is that correct?"

"Mhm."

"Then, I don't think it's a problem for you to be here. If you need help, you need help, right?"

Okay, that's true. But Enjolras still feels guilty. He twists his hands in his lap. "Shouldn't I just wait, though? I'm sorry, I'm taking up your time.”

"Please. It's what I'm here for." Katelyn pulls out her notepad and a pen and adjusts her glasses in an admirably counselor-like way. "Now, dear. Let's talk about your intake survey."

Enjolras can't really argue with her when she's so authoritative like that, so he nods. Katelyn points to her paper, which already has a few notes scribbled on it.

"So, I was looking through your answers, and I'm a little concerned. Did you rate your desire for death as _very high_?"

"Yes."

"Mhm. Can you tell me about that?"

"Um." What is there to say? Enjolras scratches his ear. "Well, I have a desire for death. And it's very high."

"Okay. And do you have a plan?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Can you tell me about it?"

Enjolras doesn’t really want to. It’s awkward, and he doesn’t see why it matters. But he wants to do his best so that he won’t have to go back to his parents, so he’s pretty sure the best course of action is to do everything that his therapists say. Besides, he's a little proud of how well thought-out his plans are. So he starts talking, a little hesitant, but fluid. Katelyn nods and listens and takes notes as he speaks.

“…and so, that's why I thought pills would be the least painful," he finishes finally, after about five minutes of uninterrupted explication. "But you know, anything would work. Because once it's done, it's fine, you know?"

Katelyn doesn't look as if she knows. Her mouth is flat. "Sweetie," she says.

Oh, no. Enjolras looks at the floor. "I'm sorry."

"What? Why are you– no." Katelyn shakes her head. "Listen, dear. I'm not upset, all right? I would just like to make a recommendation. Do you think you'd be able to check into the hospital tonight if you need to?"

"Uh, no. Nope. Not happening."

"Why not?"

"Because– because no, that's why."

Katelyn doesn't remark on this stunning answer. Instead, she tuts and turns to her computer. "Okay. Well, can you come in tomorrow, then? I can book you an appointment for 3pm."

Enjolras has class at 4, and he'll probably be late. But it doesn't matter. If there's a chance that this appointment can make him feel better, he'd like to take it. He knows he'll be alive until then; Cosette's intervention effectively wiped out his immediate plans of suicide. But he still feels horrible, and having even just this bit of hope to cling to is cheering.

"I can come," he says.

"Great."

Katelyn makes a note on her computer, and starts filling out an appointment card. "Then, we'll see you tomorrow, Enjolras. Thanks for coming in."

Enjolras looks at the floor and mumbles something. He doesn't know how to reply. Katelyn puts a hand on his arm, light and professional, but kind.

"You're doing the right thing to get help. I'm proud of you."

They met half an hour ago. It's ridiculous of her to say that. But Enjolras blushes anyway.

"Thank you."

"Be safe, dear."

Enjolras can't promise that. But he smiles as best he can, and waves as he scuttles out the door. Now he has something to look forward to, and hopefully, he'll feel a bit better afterwards. This could be good. Maybe he can get a little better and show his parents that they don't have to steal him away, and he can stay here with his friends and his schoolwork. 

Maybe he should thank Cosette after all.

\--

The next day, Enjolras plans his outfit carefully, puts a little extra care into his appearance, and swishes in to CAPS, trying to conceal his nervousness under several layers of fashion and golden-blond charm. He even uses his Malibu voice as he checks in with the receptionist, something that he only pulls out when he's really scared and needs to hide behind a plastic doll persona.

"Hi, I have an appointment for 3PM?"

If only he had some gum to pop. He examines his nails as the receptionist pulls up his file. 

"Enjolras?"

"Yeah."

"Great. You're right on time. Head upstairs and check in with the front desk up there. They'll help you."

"Thank you."

Enjolras swings his hips up the stairs and into the waiting area, outwardly confident, but utterly unsure of what to do from here. He's already checked in, so he shouldn't have to check in again, right? But then, maybe he should. If only there was someone whom he could take a cue from. 

Awkward, but pretending not to be, he digs in his bag for his phone, making believe that he has a Very Important matter to take care of, right now. That way, no one will see that he doesn't know what to do. 

It works. Before he has to give in and put his phone away and sit down, his new therapist comes out and walks over to him.

"Enjolras?"

"Yes, that's me.”

"My name is Thomas, and I'll be working with you today. Please follow me."

Enjolras pads down the hall after him, too shy to try and make conversation. He doesn't know what he would say anyway; it's always hard to talk casually with people who know that he's constantly contemplating his own death, and are bound by law to stop him from carrying it out. So he stays quiet, and only opens his mouth once he gets into the office and settles down on one of the plushy chairs in front of the window. 

"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."

"It's not a problem, sweetie. I'm glad to help."

It remains to be seen if he's actually going to help, but Enjolras has to admire his confidence. He shifts in his chair, wanting to start, but unsure of where to begin.

"So, I know HIPAA," he says finally, deciding to start off easy. "And I know copay and everything. So, you don't have to worry about telling me that."

"One second." Thomas reaches into his desk and rummages around for a second, before pulling out a stack of papers. He puts it into Enjolras's hands. "Here you go. Privacy information. Read it over at your leisure."

Enjolras blinks at it, then tucks it into his bag. "I know it," he says again. 

"All right, good. It's policy, you know." Now, Thomas takes out an iPad (how does everyone here have one, and how do they all match?) and starts scrolling through something that's apparently very troubling, because he purses his lips and levels a serious gaze at Enjolras. "So," he says.

Enjolras feels like he's on trial. "Yes sir."

"I read through your intake survey and talked with Katelyn a little bit before this."

He looks upset. Concerned, maybe? Or angry? Enjolras isn't sure. He decides to err on the side of caution.

"I'm sorry."

"No, don't apologize. It's all right. I just want to make some things clear."

"Okay."

"Good. Now, you said you were having some suicidal thoughts. Is that right?"

"Yes."

"And are you still having them?"

There's no point in lying, not if he wants to do his best here. Honesty is the best policy for recovery, he knows that. He looks at the floor. "Yes."

Thomas tuts. "I see. And how strong are these thoughts? That is, do you have a plan?"

"Yes."

"Can you tell me?"

Enjolras tells Thomas everything he told Katelyn. He even adds a few details that he'd left out before, because he wants to make this work, wants to do his best. He hates this, sure, but he'd hate having to go back to his parents' house even more. 

Thomas doesn't react much, fortunately. He makes a few notes on the pad, and nods, and finally, once Enjolras is done talking, clears his throat. "That's very, ah, detailed. You put a lot of thought into this."

"Thank you."

"No, that wasn't really a compliment– well. Anyway. Enjolras, what prompted all of this? How long have you been feeling this way?"

"All my life," Enjolras tells him honestly. "But this particular period of bad-ness started a couple days ago, when I heard that my parents want to take me home."

"I see. And that's bad?"

"It's awful." Enjolras looks up, willing Thomas to understand. "They want me to stay there until I'm _healthier_ , but they can't see that being there will just make things worse."

"But it sounds like they're just concerned about your wellbeing. Don't you think that might be something to consider?"

"No, please." Enjolras shakes his head, vehement as he can be. "Sir, you have to understand, they're not _nice_. I can't go back there. And I can't _stay_ there. Please."

"What would happen if you went back there?"

Enjolras is quiet for a second, imagining it, all the cruel words and cutting remarks, the hopelessness, the isolation, the dehumanization… it's unbearable. To his horror, he feels tears begin to boil at the back of his eyes. 

"I can't," he whispers.

"All right." Thomas doesn't look impressed, but he stops pushing. He goes to the next question on the iPad. "So, you have thoughts of harming yourself. How strong are they right now, this moment, on a scale of 1 to 10?"

"Hmm. 8, maybe."

"Okay. And what's stopping you from carrying out your plans?"

Enjolras has to think about this. He's not really sure. Yes, he knows his friends would be upset, and he doesn't want to hurt them, but he's never felt that his death is something they wouldn't be able to recover from. And maybe he wants to make a difference in the world, and maybe he's doing his best to find resources and help people now, but he also feels that he would be doing society a service if he disappeared. He really doesn't know. So he shrugs.

"Circumstantial interference?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"The last time I was going to kill myself, yesterday, you know, my friend Cosette came and stopped me before I could do much. She took me here and made me do the intake interview."

"So if it wasn't for her actions, you would be dead right now?"

Enjolras shakes his head. "I don't know. The websites said that razors aren't that lethal. It probably wouldn't have worked."

"But you had the intent, and you were beginning to act on it when your friend interrupted you? And her interference was the only thing that stopped you?"

"Yes."

"I see. I'm beginning to get a clearer picture of what's happening here, Enjolras. From what I've seen, you're dangerously suicidal."

 _No shit_. "I'm glad you can see that, sir."

"All right, well." Thomas's mouth quirks just the tiniest bit. "Yes, I suppose that's obvious. But I did want to make sure you and I are on the same page before I start my recommendations."

"Recommendations?"

"Yes. I hope you're open to that?"

"Yeah, but…” 

 _You've only known me for half an hour_ , Enjolras wants to say. Thomas might be the most brilliant psychologist in the world, but he still doesn't see how it could be possible for him to make any life-changing recommendations yet. It feels generic, almost like one of those self-help websites that claim bullet journals and yoga will cure all effects of mental illness. How is this supposed to help?

But, Thomas frowns now. "Is there a problem?"

"Oh, no. No, I was just wondering what you were going to suggest, is all. Because some things don't work on me."

"Really. Like what?"

"Doing weird diets, for one thing."

"Oh? And why's that?"

"I have an eating disorder."

Thomas is still frowning. He taps his iPad with one finger. "Are you saying you're not willing to try for recovering from that?"

"What? No, I–”

"Yes?"

Enjolras flaps his hand, trying to summon an explanation. "It's not like that," he says, feeling as if he's pushing his words through a wall of concrete. "I just, it won't work to tell me to eat like 20 carrots and expect me to be cured or anything like that. Because it's hard for me. I-it's really difficult, I'm not sure how else to say it."

"All right, I see."

Thomas is quiet for a second, and out of necessity, Enjolras is, too. He can't help but feel that he's losing control of the situation. This isn't good. He needs to get it back, somehow. 

Before he can think how to do that, though, Thomas speaks. "So, I suppose you want a recovery plan that's tailored specifically to you."

He might not mean to, but he makes it sound like such a hassle, like it's so much to expect. Enjolras looks down again, feeling guilty for no real reason.

"I'm sorry."

"It's all right. But if we plan this, will you follow it?"

"I, I don't know," Enjolras stutters. He doesn't even know what the plan is, for one thing. It could be something really weird, and he wouldn't be _able_ to follow it, even if he wanted to. Or, it could be reasonable, but beyond his abilities. He's actively trying not to die, for goodness' sakes. He's not sure how much energy he has to expend on anything else. 

Thomas doesn't seem to like this answer. His eyebrows come down together at the slope of his nose. 

"So you don't want to follow a recovery plan?"

"It's not that I don't want to. I just– what is it, anyway?"

"Well, it will hinge on one person. Maybe one of your friends, maybe a parent. They'll be your point person. They'll keep you safe and look out for you, and hold you accountable for recovery."

"Wait." Enjolras feels like his head is spinning. "You're telling me to find one person and put my life in their hands?"

Thomas nods, looking way too patient, as if he thinks Enjolras might not be very bright. "Yes. Is that a problem?"

"Um, yeah. That's grossly unfair to them. And to me. I mean, isn't recovery supposed to be about me, not anyone else?"

"Yes. Which is why we need to ensure that you stick to a plan."

"By making me unhealthily codependent with some poor person who had the misfortune to be in my life at the wrong time?"

"I wouldn't say it's unhealthy," says Thomas, but Enjolras isn't going to be stopped.

"That's ridiculous. I'm sorry, but my recovery is _not_ going to come at the expense of someone else's health or happiness."

"So you refuse to comply with a recovery plan?"

"It's not that I _refuse to comply with a recovery plan_ ," Enjolras says, unfortunately making air quotes, and only half-registering how rude he's being. "I might go along with it if you worked with me to find something that I could do. But this is _not_ healthy, and not even helpful, and in my opinion, it's not something _anyone_ should do."

Thomas closes the cover of his iPad with a decisive snap. "All right. Then, I'm afraid we'll have to send you to the hospital."

What the hell? Enjolras's face feels numb. He folds his too-heavy hands on his lap, trying to keep from flapping again.

"You're going to what?"

"I'm sorry. I know it's not ideal. But your safety is in danger. And since you refuse to comply-"

"Let me say it again," Enjolras cuts in. He feels cold all over, and the hole in his chest where passion usually wells up is completely empty, but he has to try. He can't let this happen. "I would _comply_ , as you say, with a different plan, one that I was involved in, and that was suitable for me. But this, giving me an ultimatum to scare me into blindly following your orders– that's not okay. I won't do that. And I don't think it's right for you to expect me to, either."

"You're not thinking rationally," Thomas says soothingly. Enjolras glares at him.

"Don't you gaslight me."

"I'm not trying to, sweetie," says Thomas, still in that infuriatingly smooth tone. "I'm just trying to do what's best for you. I know that's hard for you to accept, and you can be as angry as you want, but believe it or not, I only want to help you."

Abruptly, Enjolras shuts down inside. All the indignation seeps out of him, leaving him with nothing but a tremendous sense of guilt, shame, and despair. He’s not supposed to refuse help. It’s not allowed. The tears that he'd been holding back all this time start to spill up and out again, starting down his cheeks like physical manifestations of weakness. 

"I'm sorry," he says, not daring to wipe his face clean. "I didn't mean to be rude or aggressive. I’m, I'm sorry."

"You're not rude or aggressive at all," Thomas reassures him. "Don't worry, you're very sweet."

“I…”

"And that just makes me want even more for you to be safe."

"But–”

“I’m sorry. I'm going to call the police, and you can explain your case to them. It'll be up to them."

"So you're washing your hands of me, is that it?”

"I'm sorry."

There's a finality to that, and Enjolras, scared and ashamed, stops speaking. Thomas starts typing away on his iPad, probably contacting the authorities, or whoever it is who's going to drag Enjolras away, and Enjolras could put a stop to this right now, if only he would give in to Thomas's plan, but he can't. His stubbornness is kicking in now, preventing him from giving himself up.

Honestly, he feels a faint sense of pride, realizing this. He's still measurably _himself_ , even if everything else is going weird. He's not going to compromise his sense of what's right in order to make things easier, even in the face of an egregious human rights violation. That's good. That's something to hold onto.

But still, it's faint comfort. No matter how morally admirable this is, it’s still happening, and happening horribly. Enjolras watches in half-clinical despair as Thomas finishes typing up his command, and turns to his computer, facing away from him.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I need to write up a note for you, explaining your situation. I'm not ignoring you. Please feel free to talk about whatever you'd like."

Enjolras can't speak. He's crying too hard, and his voice won't work. He doesn't feel up to the task of explaining himself, anyway. So he stays still, quiet and submissive, scratching at the skin on his wrist where his sleeve will cover the marks. 

He doesn't know how long it takes, because time is doing that thing where it starts folding in on itself and making minutes stretch on for hours, but eventually, Thomas finishes his note (it must be more like a novel, really, if all the typing is anything to go by) and turns back around.

"So have you reconsidered?" he asks. 

Enjolras shakes his head, still not trusting his voice. He won't be scared into doing something that's so blatantly wrong, even if it comes at great personal cost. 

Which, yeah.

There's a knock on the door, and Thomas pulls it open to reveal two suited police officers, younger and more handsome than Enjolras would have thought, and bearing similar sympathetic expressions. Enjolras sits up a little straighter, trying to will his tears away. He can do this.

"Hi," says the first officer. He comes over to shake Enjolras's hand. "My name's Johnson, and this is Cruz. We're from the UCPD."

"I'm Enjolras. It's nice to meet you."

"I wish it were under better circumstances," says Cruz, with an apologetic little wince. Enjolras summons a watery smile.

"Don't say that. There's no time like the present, right?"

It's working. He can feel them falling victim to his charms already. Just a few more minutes, and he'll be able to convince them to let him go.

Thomas seems to sense this. He gets between the two officers and addresses them directly, taking their attention away from Enjolras. 

"So, let me give you a little background."

Oh, no. Enjolras raises his hand. "I can do it. It's my case."

"Let me, sweetie."

Enjolras has no choice but to lower his hand again, and listen as Thomas clinically details everything Enjolras had told him over the past half hour. It's not _wrong_ , but he makes it sound so serious, more serious than it is. Why is this so bad, anyway? Enjolras is pretty sure half the people his age are at least passively suicidal. 

The officers don't seem to like what they're hearing, though. When Thomas is done, Johnson frowns and looks at Enjolras way too seriously. 

"Is this true?"

"It's not… _untrue_."

"I see."

That doesn't sound good. Enjolras desperately tries to smile, one last-ditch attempt to charm his way out of the quagmire. "But it's nothing new, you know?"

This just makes the officers frown more. They pass a look between them, and turn back to Enjolras, faces set.

"I'm sorry," says Cruz. "We're going to be taking you in."

"What? No, you can't, I have things to do. I _can’t_.”

"I'm sorry."

Enjolras chokes down a knot of furious tears. So this is how they want to run the game, is it? Fine. He'll play along. There's still the hospital staff, after all. He'll get out of this sooner or later.

"Okay," he says. "I'll go with you. But I'll need to talk to someone about insurance."

"I think that can be arranged." Cruz motions for Enjolras to stand up, and he does, realizing how tiny he is in comparison to these men. They could lock him away, and he wouldn't be able to do anything about it. 

Well, come to think of it, that's sort of what they're doing right now. He tries not to scowl. This is such a violation of his rights. 

"I'm sorry," says Johnson now. "You seem like a nice person, but it's policy, so. I'm afraid we're going to have to handcuff you."

Better and better. Is there any way that this could be more humiliating? Enjolras decides not to wonder that, in case it makes _whatever-it-is_ happen. Time to put on a brave face instead. He nods.

"Well, I have always wanted to try handcuffs."

Cruz and Johnson chuckle, looking relieved at his acquiescence. "Ha. This is a pretty safe time to do it, so good timing. No danger for you."

 _I guess_.

Enjolras allows himself to be handcuffed and led down to the waiting police car. They take the back stairs, but some of the people from the resource center see him anyway, and their jaws drop in unison. Enjolras knows what they're thinking: he's too cute to get in trouble. He gives them a smirk as he passes them by. That's what they think. 

Cruz and Johnson keep up a stream of conversation all the way into the ER, and back out into the waiting room, where they have to sit and stay in a group, presumably in case Enjolras decides to make a break for it or something. He could; he's uncuffed now, and he has his stuff back. But he won't. It would be too easy to stop him, and besides, there's the matter of his pride. 

So he sits docilely and makes small talk with Cruz and Johnson, the very image of obedience. This is one of the few times in his life that he's willingly going along with authority, and he's going all in. 

And really, it's not bad. Cruz and Johnson are fun, and they respond well to Enjolras's little witticisms. He thinks they'll probably ask him for his phone number if they stay here any longer. That would be one hell of a way to get hit on, that's for sure.

Fortunately, the nurse comes out before too long and calls Enjolras back. His police bodyguards accompany him all the way to triage, but all too soon, they're handing Thomas's note to the nurse and bowing out with kind smiles and words of hope for Enjolras. 

He's sorry to see them go. They were nice. Talking with them helped him stay present, and not freak out too badly at the fact that he's back in the hospital, stuck in a situation that's rapidly spinning out of control. Now, it's back to brisk efficiency, medical rigidity, and way too many blood pressure cuffs. He's still determined to get out, but the possibility seems further and further away with every passing minute.

The attending nurse eventually finishes doing vitals, and leaves, after telling Enjolras to change into hospital clothes and give all his stuff to security so they can log it for him, because he's not allowed to have it here. He doesn't really get this part, but he does what they say. There's nothing else he can do, after all.

The hospital gown they give him is an extra large. It would probably still be big on someone twice his size. As it is, it won't stay closed, even when he tries to tie it, and the pants drag on the ground. It's horribly uncomfortable. Really, if he's going to be in here, the least they can do is dress him up in something pretty and dramatic makes him look like a character from a soap opera or something. This flour-sack linen isn't helping anyone. 

It's sort of the last straw, actually. Enjolras is sure now; he's going to kill himself, and no one is going to stop him. His life is nothing to be missed, drab and ill-fitting as his hospital gown, burdensome, wearisome, just another hideous invention by a stranger. The minute he gets out, he's going to kill himself, and this time, no one is going to stop him.

Or maybe he should just figure out a way to do it here. That would be ironic, wouldn't it? Almost funny, in a dark sort of way. He's never had that sort of humor, but now he's a bit amused, thinking of how _offended_ the hospital staff would be to find him dead in the bathroom. They would probably try to resuscitate him just so they could sue him for making them look bad. 

And it wouldn't be too hard. He's always been smart. Resourceful, even. He could find a way. 

He's still thinking about this when the door opens and the psych nurse comes in, flanked by a med student with an enormous notepad. They both nod at him, and the nurse comes over to his bed.

"Good evening."

"Evening? What time is it?"

"A quarter after six."

Enjolras shudders. He's already losing his sense of time. That's what the hospital does, with all its slick white walls and tile floors and sickly impersonal sterility everywhere. It steals every bit of identity from the people inside, leaving them as cold and inert as the blank white walls. Being dead won't make a difference now; everything stopped the second he checked in.

"Do you know when I can leave?” he asks, voice small.

The nurse tuts sympathetically. "Oh, I'm sorry, honey. I know you're scared. But I'm afraid this is a 72-hour hold."

"So I can't go?"

"I'm afraid not."

Enjolras looks down, giving a tiny nod. He can't argue. That will make them think he's noncompliant or something. Anything to get out of here; he'll be the perfect submissive child that his parents always wanted, if it means he can go home. 

Or, well. That's another thorny issue. Because if he does go home, he _will_ have to be that child. Right now, the hospital is keeping him away from his parents, but if– when– he leaves, he'll have the whole family situation to contend with. 

It's a tricky business. He's not sure what to think. Maybe it would be better to stay here after all, let the time slip away from him as he stays frozen forever in this hateful white world. He would probably die soon enough, maybe from fear, maybe by his own hand, and everything would be settled. That could be all right.

But even as thoughts fly through his head, he realizes that it's impossible. Even just being here this long has had such an effect on him; he can't imagine what it would be like to be interred here for days on end with no hope of escape. He would well and truly lose his mind. That won't do. It's all he has. When he dies, he wants to die with dignity. 

"Are you all right, dear?" asks the nurse, breaking into this snowstorm of thoughts. "Would you like some water or anything? Crackers? Juice?"

Enjolras shakes his head. It's silly, but he sort of feels like Persephone in here; if he eats anything, he'll be bound to this world forever, never allowed to return. 

"All right." The nurse consults his notepad, frowning at the first item. "So, Enjolras. Can you tell me why you're here?"

"Because the American Medical Association was complicit in the violation of my human rights."

"What?"

"Oh. Oh, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have…”

"It's all right. I know how scary this is. But do you know why you're here? Can you tell me?"

Enjolras isn't exactly sure. He can't pinpoint the moment when the day went wrong. But he does his best, explaining his visit to CAPS, his meetings with Katelyn and Thomas, and their subsequent decision to bring him in. He fumbles a bit, especially when the nurse and the intern take turns asking him questions, but he doesn't think he does too badly. At least he doesn't faint and fall off the bed or anything. 

When he's all done, the nurse clicks his tongue and scribbles a few notes down on his pad. Enjolras can't quite see what they say from where he's sitting, but they look ominous.

"What's going to happen?" he asks.

"Well, we need to consult with your team." The nurse gets up, gesturing for the intern to follow. "We'll try to get back to you shortly. Can you be brave and wait a little more?"

"I don't have a choice, do I?"

Both the nurse and the intern chuckle uncomfortably. Okay, so that wasn't the right answer. Well, whatever. Enjolras is past caring now. He nods.

"I'll be here."

"Good."

And with that, they're gone, and Enjolras is alone again. 

—

It's another hour and a half before the psych team comes down to talk to Enjolras. By now, he's almost completely out of it. He can't stop crying, and his head is spinning and aching so badly that he can barely focus on figuring out what to do. So when the psychiatrist comes in and introduces herself, it's all he can do to wave weakly at her, head flopped over to one side.

"Hi," she says, undeterred by his lackluster presentation. "So, we've been discussing your case, but I'd like to hear the story from you. What's been going on?"

Yet another iteration. Enjolras starts explaining as calmly as he can, doing his best to answer the questions that the psychiatrist asks. It doesn't even feel like his own experience anymore; it could be some random story that he overheard on the metro.

But actually, that's a bad comparison, he thinks. If he did hear this story, he would definitely be concerned and sympathetic, would probably want to help as much as he could. Maybe he would even break into his list of resources to try and mitigate the situation in the best way he could. But, because it's him, he just feels vaguely disgusted and numb. What a strange logical problem.

The psychiatrist doesn't seem to pick up on his confusion, and she's strangely condescending, but at least she listens a bit better than Thomas had, and seems to understand that having one be-all-end-all support person is a bad idea.

"I'm sure he didn't really mean that," she says. "This is a scary time for you, and it can be easy for you to misinterpret things. But don't worry, sweetie. We know what's best, and we'll take good care of you."

Idly, Enjolras wonders if all mental health professionals share the same paternalistic attitude, or if it's just something about him that makes people want to treat him that way. Certainly, it always seems to happen. Something about him looking young and small and vulnerable, probably; that always seems to bring out people's best overbearing instincts. 

It may be something that he's used to, but it's certainly very annoying. Right now, the psychiatrist is consulting her pad and nodding to herself as if she's gotten everything figured out. 

"Don't worry," she says again, much too calmly.

This really makes Enjolras want to worry more. "What's going on?"

"I need to consult with the others to see what they think. Your case is important, so we want to give it a lot of thought."

Is that promising? It doesn't sound promising. Enjolras tries not to sigh. "Okay. I'll wait for you."

"'Atta boy." The psychiatrist smiles once more as she turns to go. "It'll be all right. Try to relax."

Enjolras sticks out his tongue at the door as soon as she shuts it behind her. Like hell is he going to relax. 

While he waits for the news that will determine his future, he amuses himself by pressing patterns into his wrist with his nails. Thank goodness he hasn't been biting them recently; they're long enough to make nice little crescent shapes in the softest part of his skin. He can make lots of different geometric shapes, even words, sort of. It's kind of interesting. 

When this gets boring, he starts watching out the window into the observation room, where the security guard and a couple of the nurses are hanging out. He can mostly hear them through the glass, but either they don't know this, or they don't care, because they're talking about some pretty confidential information. 

"Yeah, we had a really violent guy in here earlier," says one of the nurses, a brawny woman with dark skin and blonde hair who looks a lot like Bahorel. "He tried to bite me, can you believe that?"

The security guard shakes her head. "You're preaching to the choir here. I'm the one who had to deal with that guy who was off his meds."

"Oh yeah." One of the other nurses shudders. “Chelley, we saw him, too, remember? He punched the gurney."

"Why would he do that, though," wonders the first nurse. "I mean, sure we were going to put him on it, but wouldn't it be logistically better to punch a person?"

"Who knows. Bunch of nutcases we got in here," says the other nurse blithely. "God, I hate working in the psych ward sometimes."

The security guard glances at the window. Enjolras quickly averts his eyes. "Some of them aren't too bad," she says. "We got an SI in room two back there, cutest little thing I've ever seen."

"Oh, the little blond?" Now they're all looking in. Enjolras knows they are. "Yeah, super adorable. Really well-behaved, too."

Is he supposed to be a kitten or something? Enjolras tries not to scowl. He's used to being talked about like this, but it's never not annoying. Sure, it would be okay if he was friends with these people, but he isn't, so it all comes across as objectifying.

"Weird, though isn't it?" the second nurse is asking now. "I mean, pretty little thing like that, you'd think they'd be out living life. Not trying to end it."

The security guard sighs. "I don't know. It's sad, they're just a kid."

At this point, some of the EMTs come in with another patient, and everyone stops talking to deal with them. Enjolras is a little disappointed. It's not nice to be talked about, sure, but he was also interested in a morbid sort of way. And, it has the added bonus of making him feel real, so that's something, too.

It's okay, though. He's not so much of a narcissist as all that. 

Time slows down after this, all but freezing in the brittle air of the triage room. Enjolras lies down on the bed, trying unsuccessfully to sleep, but after a few minutes (or maybe hours) he ends up sitting back up, unable to bear the sight of his reflection in the flat-top ceiling lights. 

He's not sure how long he sits there after that, waiting, but eventually, there's a knock on the door, and his psych person comes in, smiling in that special way. She looks three seconds away from pulling out the straitjacket.

"Hi," she says. "We talked about your case upstairs."

Here it is, the moment of truth. Enjolras tries not to look scared. "Yeah?"

"We've decided to admit you."

 _No. They can't_. Enjolras clenches his hand into a fist as if gathering strength. Strength that he'll definitely need if he wants to get out of here intact. 

"On what grounds?"

His voice is higher than usual, but fairly steady. Only his closest friends would recognize the distress he's trying so desperately to hide.

"It's for your safety," the psych nurse tells him calmly. "We agreed that we don't feel comfortable releasing you like this."

"Like _what_? I'm always like this. You can't think–”

"Well, that's all the more reason to admit you, isn't it?"

Enjolras feels the barely-suppressed tears flooding his senses, threatening to drown him. He fights for composure– there's no way he'll be taken seriously if he's crying– and summons the last reserves of authority he has. 

"This is a violation of my rights, my autonomy, my very personhood. Would you deny me my freedom of will?"

"Your safety is in question," says the nurse. Her voice is still in that infuriatingly peaceful register, and Enjolras wants to scream.

"In your opinion. But I never consented to have your opinion overrule my humanity."

"Well, in this case, we don't need your consent."

"So you're giving up all pretense at ethics?"

"No, dear. In fact, it would be unethical of us to let you leave here when we're not sure what you're going to do."

Enjolras can't think of the last time he felt so helpless. All his rights have been stripped away; he's at the complete mercy of these strangers, legally bound to abide by their every whim. None of his words seem to be making any difference. He decides to try a different tack.

"My insurance," he says. "I'm covered by my parents' plan, so they'll definitely know that I was here. And given my family history, I would rather that not happen. Are you asking me to choose between digging myself into debt to pay for a hospital stay that I don't want or need, and subjecting myself to the abuse of my parents when they learn that I've failed them again?"

"I think you do need this hospital stay," says the nurse, infuriatingly fixing on only one part of the statement. "Listen, I know you may not like it, but there's no need to get aggressive with me. Why don't you be a good boy and trust that we know what's best?"

Enjolras doesn't think he's being particularly aggressive. Despite his brave words, his voice is soft, hurt, choked with tears, and he's sitting hunched in on himself like a tiny fragile ball of fear. But still, the nurse's words have the desired effect. He draws even further back, hating himself for having acted badly. It's only okay to be aggressive when he's countering systematic discrimination or real problems; when people are trying to help him, he has to be grateful for it, because he doesn't even deserve that much, and for him to throw it back in their faces would be awful. He's so spoiled, so selfish, such a bad, ungrateful person. 

"I'm sorry," he whispers. The tears are falling freely now. "I promise, I'm sorry. I'll be better. But please, I'm begging you–”

"No," the nurse snaps. She's angry now. "Listen, we already decided, and that's what's going to happen. There's nothing you can do."

"Please, I'll do anything you want, _anything_.”

"Stop arguing. We're admitting you; that's final."

"But I can’t–“

"Sit. Stay here."

“I–”

"Do you want me to call security?"

The last shred of Enjolras's resistance withers away. He has horrible visions of being beaten, or restrained, or sedated until he loses consciousness. Who knows what would happen to him? It's best that he keep what little control he has.

"No," he says. "I'm sorry. I'll be good."

"Good." The nurse stands up, calm personified once again. "We'll send someone down with a wheelchair soon. Why don't you sit quietly here and think about what you've done?"

"What I've done? But…”

The nurse arches an eyebrow. "Is that a problem?"

"Ah, no. I'm sorry."

"Then stay."

Again, Enjolras feels vaguely that he's being treated like a pet. Maybe it's his appearance, because no one thinks that pretty blonds have any sense of self-determination, or maybe his age, because he's at least fifteen years younger than anyone he's seen in here. Or maybe it's his mental illness, who knows? He's heard awful things about the mental health care system, even seen some examples with his own eyes, and it's not beyond imagination that these people would consider his sickness reasonable grounds for dehumanization. Or even a combination of everything, reasons on reasons stacked together into an unstoppable discriminatory force. 

It's sickening. This is what he's supposed to be fighting against, in fact, what he wants to dedicate his life to combatting, but here, now that he's seen it firsthand, he can't do anything more than curl into himself and cry.

Pathetic, that's what it is, truly pathetic and disgusting, and hypocritical in all the worst ways. There's no way Enjolras will make a difference in the world. This is it: even more proof that he needs to die. 

While he's considering this, a shout from the other room startles him, and he stiffens on the bed. Whoever's out there sounds _furious_. For a second, he's not even sure what they're saying, but when he focuses his mind, he realizes that they're spewing way-too-specific death threats, sprinkled liberally with profanity.

"I'm going to break you in half," screams the voice. "I'm going to destroy you, you fucking cunt. I'm going to _wreck_ your shit, you hear me? I'm going to break you apart and then–”

Enjolras slams his hands over his ears, trembling in terror. He can't stand listening to people raise their voices in daily life. Political situations are different; he can handle shouting if it's not like _this_. The few protest events he's been to on campus have been mostly all right, maybe a little crowded and anxiety-inducing, but not chillingly horrifying. The fact is, the situations are few and far between when he can handle rage. Angry people scare him if they're making it personal. And this? This is personal.

The voice continues screaming and howling outside, going on and on about the horrible things that will happen, and no matter how hard he tries, Enjolras can't shut it out. He wants to die, yes, but he can't control the horrible, paralyzingly fear that this voice is bringing out. Rationally, he knows that dying by his own hand and being killed by whoever's outside will have the same effect in the end, but sadly, his anxiety-ridden mind has never been rational at times like these.

So when the noise starts getting closer, almost up to the window into Enjolras's room, he dives off the bed, blanket clutched in his hand, and scuttles underneath the table in the corner. Not only does it feel safer to be under something, it's also probably the only place in the room that's not visible through the window. He wraps himself in the blanket and puts his head down on his knees, trying to wish it all away. 

 _Combeferre_ , he thinks, trying to psychically project his thoughts to the neurology ward. _Are you here? Are you working right now? I don't know what time it is, or what's happening anymore. Please come for me. I'm so scared_.

"Enjolras?"

Enjolras jerks up. "'Ferre?"

"What? What's a Ferre?" 

To Enjolras's utter disappointment, it's not Combeferre. It's one of the security guards, the new one, the one whom Enjolras hasn't seen much of yet. He's very big and burly and Caucasian, and has a scratched, growly, bass voice that would be like Grantaire's if it had any warmth to it. Enjolras tries not to let his face fall.

"I'm sorry. I thought you were someone else."

"All right." The guard looks weirded out, but he nods. "Are you doin' okay? Why're you under there?"

Enjolras beckons him a little closer. He's scared, but it would be worse for these words to be heard out in the other room. He looks around, and puts a finger to his lips. 

"The person," he says. "I'm hiding."

"What person?" asks the security guard loudly. Enjolras hushes him again. 

"Shh, they'll hear you."

"Who's _they_?"

Now the security guard is looking at Enjolras with a truly strange expression. Belatedly, Enjolras realizes just how stereotypically ill he sounds. "I'm not imagining it," he says.

This just makes things worse. The security guard backs out of the room, firmly shutting the door. Enjolras lifts his head to peek through the window, and sees him gesturing emphatically to the nurses.

“–seein' things," he's saying. "I went in there, and she was under the table. Said she saw a person scarin' her."

"A person?"

"Yeah. And she thought I was someone else. Crazy bitch."

On the word _bitch_ , Enjolras stiffens in horror. He's heard that recently, in that same intonation, too. Impossible though it seems, the security guard must have been the one shouting all those things earlier. 

This is it. Enjolras is going to die. The security guard is going to realize what he was talking about and be offended and want to make good on his threats, and he's going to come back in here, and–

The door opens.

Enjolras screams in pure terror, a high, shrill explosion that startles even him. "Please stay away," he babbles, trying to push himself back into the corner. "I'll do anything you want, but please leave me alone!"

"What?"

That's a different voice, isn't it? With difficulty, Enjolras stops talking and tries to breathe instead. Sure enough, it's one of the nurses, the Bahorel 2.0. She has her hands held out in front of her, like she’s trying to calm a startled animal. 

"It's okay," she says. "Hey, I'm not here to hurt you."

Enjolras creeps forward a little bit. "I believe you," he says. "But the other one, the security guard…”

"Aw, did Tommy scare you?" The nurse comes over and kneels down on the floor in front of Enjolras. "I know. To be honest, he scares a lot of people. I think they keep him just because he fits the look. But don't worry. He won't hurt you."

"Are you sure?"

"I promise. Now. Can you come back and sit on your bed? I think that would be more comfortable."

Enjolras hesitates. He's still scared. Being out in the open like that seems like too much. The nurse seems to pick up on this.

"Do you want me to stay with you for awhile?" she asks. 

"Um." Enjolras chews his lip, and then nods. "Please. If you don't mind."

The nurse smiles, and yeah, she really does look like Bahorel. "I'd be happy to."

—

The nurse's name is Michelle, and she's 28 years old. She likes dolphins and MMA and the color orange, and she wants to save up and buy an old-school station wagon so she can fix it up in her garage and give it to her girlfriend, Rosa. "I just like hands-on things, ya know?" she says.

By the time the door opens again, and another nurse comes in with a wheelchair, Michelle has gotten Enjolras to stop crying. She helps him to his feet, and leads him over to the chair.

"Listen," she says. "I know it's hard for you, and I know what it's like, 'cause I've been there, too. But you're going to get through this. Things will get better, I promise. There's always hope. Look…”

Enjolras looks up at her. "Yeah?"

"I'm going to join the ACLU tonight, because of you. I believe in you."

Enjolras is too stunned to say anything. He gapes up at her, eyes wide. "Really?"

"Yeah. You're going to make a change, kiddo." Michelle ruffles his hair lightly. "C'mon, give me a smile."

Enjolras sort of manages it. It's watery, and barely lasts more than a second, but it's something. Michelle looks like he's made her day.

"You've got a beautiful smile. Don't lose it."

She gives him one last pat on the head, and then she's gone, off to take care of another patient in the main room. Enjolras watches, trying not to cry again. It's not despair, though; it's emotion. This is the worst place he's ever been in, and the worst time in his life, but even now, even in the very blackest darkness, someone's shown him a bit of light. 

This is one of those moments, he thinks. His entire world is balancing on the tip of a needle. There's no telling what's going to happen, or if he's going to make it out alive. But even so, there's precious memories to be found, and there are angels who live in the guise of six-foot tall bisexual nurses with sleeves of tattoos and cigarette breath and expansive hearts for loving. There's no doubt about it, he's going to remember Michelle for the rest of his life (no matter how long that will be). 

And so, it’s a balance. All the darkness in the world can come try to pull him under, and maybe it will, who knows, but even at the worst moments, there’s going to be light to stand in its way. Even now, there’s goodness, and there are good people who help to carry it out.

Even now, there's hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so!!! pls don't let this discourage u from seeking help, especially if you find yourself to be in a situation as described here!!! although some mental health professionals can be difficult to deal with, many of them are quite competent and caring, and can help you with whatever you need. sometimes, things can happen, and it can be way too scary to get help, but please try, if you feel that you need it! dm me and I can give u Advice bc your health is the most important okay!!!!!  
> [tumblr](http://synchronysymphony.tumblr.com)


	13. Chapter 13

Enjolras's new room is stark and bare, empty of everything he could possibly use for company, except a table, a couch, a big rocking chair, and a bed. There's not even a trashcan. When he mentions this last part, wondering how he's going to keep things sanitary, the attending nurse leaves and comes back with a brown paper bag.

"There you go," she says. "That's what we use around here." _Why_ , Enjolras wonders, but he doesn't ask. It doesn't matter at this point.

The nurse takes his belongings, all of which have been thoroughly documented and bagged, and locks them in the cabinet. He gives up his shoes (for the laces), his spiralbound notebook (for the metal), and his class handouts (for the staples) with no fuss, but when he tries to take his phone, she whisks it away.

"You're not allowed to have electronics here."

Oh. So it's like prison, then. Enjolras bites back the urge to say that he was allowed to have all these things in the eating disorder ward, but he doesn't want to sound like a brat, so he just bows his head and asks if he can have paper and a pen, and his lip balm. 

"Of course," says the nurse. "We're not trying to restrict your freedom here."

It's really hard not to break down into hysterical laughter at this point. 

A different nurse comes in to do the intake forms, while the other goes to collect some shampoo and lotion and other such staples. He's very chatty, and asks Enjolras how his night is going.

"Okay," says Enjolras politely. "How are you?"

"It's weird seeing you here," the nurse says instead of replying. "You're so pretty. What's the deal? You said you wanted to slit your wrists or something?"

There has to be something wrong with saying that. Enjolras doesn't know exactly what rule it violates, though, so he just shrugs. 

"They told you about that?"

"Oh yes. I know a lot about you." The nurse holds out a blood pressure cuff (child-sized, Enjolras can't help but notice). "You know, you shouldn't be here."

Finally someone understands. Enjolras is opening his mouth to agree, but the nurse goes on.

"You're so beautiful. Your figure is perfect, and that _face_ … how old are you? Sixteen? Seventeen?”

“Twenty. I'm in college."

"It's not right," the nurse goes on, not listening. "You're too beautiful to be this sick. You should be going out to party, date people, do some drugs…”

"I'm good, actually."

"Ah, young people!" The nurse sighs, lifting his arms to heaven. "Why are you all so sad? In my day, we knew how to enjoy ourselves."

Enjolras has no idea what to say to this. He just shrugs and pretends to be absorbed in looking at the blood pressure monitor. It’s unfortunate, but he’s really not up for a debate about the bleak cultural zeitgeist of the millennial generation tonight.

After several more minutes of comments about Enjolras's youth and beauty, the nurse bows out, leaving Enjolras to his own devices. "You can go to bed anytime you'd like," he says. "You have to keep the door open so we can check on you every fifteen minutes, and you can't leave your room, but aside from that, you're free to do whatever you want."

That doesn't leave many options, so Enjolras just nods and settles into bed. "Thank you."

"Do you want the light off?"

"Please."

The nurse clicks the switch and leaves. It's still too light, but Enjolras won't complain. It's not like he'd be able to sleep in any case.

Now alone, in an uncomfortable bed, wrapped in blankets that don't feel warm at all, Enjolras can finally process what's going on. He's in a hospital– _again_ – trapped against his will for at least two more days. And he's cut off from everyone, unable to contact them (however briefly), or even send word of what's happened. Combeferre and Courfeyrac must be worried; it's rare for him not to come home at night without texting them first. 

But then, though, maybe they think he's over at Grantaire's place, and is too busy having sex to text them that he won't be back. It's happened before. In that case, they won't be worried. And the others won't notice that anything's off for awhile. They'll just think he's ignoring them. 

The realization is heartbreaking. Enjolras won't be missed when he's gone, not even if he disappears without warning. He's useless, pointless, floating in and out of his friends' lives like a fleck of worthless dust. It’s such a dismaying thought that the small relief of not worrying his friends dissolves completely. Utterly defeated, he turns his face into his pillow and begins to sob. 

He doesn't know how long he stays like that, crying out his broken heart, but it must be more than fifteen minutes, because after awhile, the nurse comes back in. He putters around the room until finally it sounds like he's leaving, when he hears the stifled sounds of Enjolras trying to cry without making noise and comes over to the bed.

"Hey," he says. "Hey, sweetie, are you okay?"

Enjolras abandons his pitiful attempts at dignity and sits up. He knows he looks awful with his mussed hair and tear-stained face, but at this point, there's nothing he can do. 

"I'm sorry," he sniffles, blinking pathetically at the nurse. "I didn't mean to be loud. I'm just– I don't like the hospital."

There's multitudes more to it than that, but this is a good starting point. It's not like Enjolras is trying to get 12AM therapy or anything. Hopefully, this will be a good way to explain why he's upset, and the nurse will accept it and leave without yelling at him too much. 

But, “I’m sorry," the nurse tells him, miraculously not yelling at all. "I know this is overwhelming. You must be really scared."

Enjolras can't speak to concur. He just nods. The nurse sighs and sits down on the edge of his bed. 

"I feel for you, I really do. It must be hard. You're already so sick, and then they just pick you up and stick you in here without a word of warning. I've never liked this system, myself. It doesn't seem right."

There's a brief silence, during which Enjolras tries not to make gross sounds from his dripping nose, and the nurse sits still, presumably pondering what to do. Finally, he seems to make up his mind and touches Enjolras on the arm.

"All right. It's technically against the rules since it's past 8PM, but would you like to make a phone call? You can."

"I can?"

"Yes. A brief one."

"Oh, thank you so much! You're so kind, you don't even know…”

The nurse staves off the string of gratitude with a genial half-wave. "It's fine. Just keep quiet."

He unlocks the cabinet and gives Enjolras his phone. It's only been about eight hours, but it's such a relief to hold it again. Enjolras strokes the screen, thinking of whom to call. Combeferre? Grantaire? Either one of them would be wonderful, but unfortunately, they're not the most reliable when it comes to picking up their phones. They might ignore the call, and then Enjolras would have wasted his only chance. So, he takes a deep breath, nods, and calls Courfeyrac. 

Courfeyrac answers on the second ring, fortunately, although he sounds winded, and there's a lot of noise in the background, like he’s at the gym or something, although this makes no sense. 

"Enjolras?"

"Hi, Courfeyrac. I'm in the hospital."

" _What_?"

Belatedly, Enjolras realizes that the background noise is Marius and Cosette. They're giggling and telling Courfeyrac to hang up and come back. Well, that's awkward. Enjolras clears his throat.

"Sorry, you're busy. I didn't mean to interrupt you. I'll go now."

"No!" Courfeyrac's voice is so forceful that it buzzes on the speakers. "Enjolras, don't you dare hang up. My sex life can wait. What the hell do you mean you're in the hospital?" 

Suddenly, all the giggling on the other end stops. There's a squeaky _what_? and what sounds like Cosette swearing, and Enjolras knows he's really put his foot into it this time.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"What? _What_?"

"I went to CAPS, and they got upset when I told them everything and they made me come here, and now they won't let me leave. I'm going to be here for 72 hours at least. Sorry, I wanted to let you know. But I didn't mean to be weird. I'll go–”

"If you hang up, I'm going to come over there and smack you," Courfeyrac tells him menacingly. "Stop apologizing. It's not your fault, okay? Can you tell me what's going on?"

"I don't know." Enjolras is acutely aware of the nurse standing next to him, listening to every word he says. He doesn't want to say anything bad, but… this is all so much, and Courfeyrac is finally here, and it's just too tempting to speak frankly. "I'm so confused," he says. "They won't let me do anything, and they decided everything without me, and they're keeping me here against my will, and they took all my stuff, and I'm so scared, Courfeyrac, I can't stand this."

His voice breaks off here, dissolved into incomprehensible weeping. The lump in his throat hurts way too much now, and his head is pounding, but even so, he can't stop crying. He's a mess, that's what he is.

"Hey, shh. Shh, it's okay. Breathe, honey. Just one nice, long breath."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can." Courfeyrac breathes loudly and obviously into the phone. "Just like that, okay? Can you do that for me?"

Enjolras tries. It's more of a shudder than a breath, and it ends ragged and abrupt, but Courfeyrac seems pleased. 

"That was good. You're good. You're so brave, and you're going to get through this."

"Am I?"

"You are. I promise."

The nurse taps Enjolras on the arm. "Wrap it up," he mouths.

"Courfeyrac!" Enjolras winces. He's way too loud. "Sorry. I'm sorry. Can you tell everyone? Please. Tell them I'm here, and I'm sorry. And tell Grantaire I love him. He might worry, so be nice to him, okay? And don't let him drink too much. And tell 'Ferre not to cry."

"I will," Courfeyrac promises. His voice is wobbly now. "But Enjolras, are you going to be okay? I can't believe this is happening."

"I know. It's weird. But it'll be okay, okay! Please don't worry."

Courfeyrac snuffles. "You're going to be just fine, you hear me? You're going to make it through this. And when you come home, we're all going to kiss you and keep you safe, and you're never going to be taken against your will ever again. It's going to be okay. Be brave, angel. I love you."

"I love you too!"

"Let me see this," says the nurse, plucking the phone right out of Enjolras's hand. Enjolras tries to grab it back, but the nurse successfully avoids him. "Hello? Yes, my name is Han, and I'm the nurse assigned to Enjolras tonight. Are you his boyfriend?"

There's a bit of silence, which Enjolras can't translate no matter how hard he tries (though Courfeyrac's answer is likely very entertaining), and then Han nods. "I see. Well, you're a very good friend. I just wanted to let you know that Enjolras is in room 412. You'll need to know that if you want to contact him. But he's only allowed four calls per day, and visiting hours are from 6 to 8 only, so be judicious."

Silence again. If Han weren't busy talking to Courfeyrac, Enjolras would be tempted to protest. Is this all the outside contact that people are allowed here? It doesn't seem right. It fits with the whole restrictive nature of the system, but still, he's never going to be able to accept anything he discovers in this place. 

He's so lost in indignation that he misses the second when Han says goodbye to Courfeyrac and hangs up. It's only when he's opening the cabinet and locking the phone away again that Enjolras realizes he's alone.

"Thank you for letting me call," he says, because that seems like the polite thing to do. Han nods.

"You're welcome. But don't tell the other patients about it, or they'll all want to make extra calls, too."

Enjolras doesn't think he'll be talking to the other patients much anyway, but he nods. "Sure."

"Great." Han glances at his watch. "It's late. Do you think you can sleep now? Do you need anything else?"

"Do you have, can I…” Enjolras swallows, telling himself that it's okay to ask, that Han will grant him that latitude. "Is it possible for me to have another blanket?"

"A blanket? Sure. I'll be right back."

And he’s gone, out the door. Now Enjolras isn't sure what to do with himself. Should he sit here until Han gets back with his blanket? But then he might feel awkward about making Enjolras wait for him. Or maybe it's better to try and sleep? But then what will he do when Han comes in? Let himself be covered up like a baby? Logistics are always so tricky in unfamiliar situations– he thinks he would know instinctively what to do if he weren’t so awkward, but unfortunately, he is, so his entire life is set to be like this. 

Eventually, he does lie down to wait (which isn’t restful at all, because he’s on high alert for blankets to appear), and awkwardly goes into a half-sitting position when Han comes back. "Blankets," he says, pointing, and immediately wants to slap himself, because yes, obviously those are blankets. 

Han spreads them out over the bed, admirably not commenting on this conversational fallacy. "I heated them," he says. "Hopefully that should keep you warm."

Enjolras reaches out and holds onto the top blanket. It is warm, all nice and comforting. If he bunched it up, maybe it would feel like another person. How wonderful; this is such a little thing, but it might be barely enough to get him through tonight. He raises already-teary eyes to Han's face.

"Thank you so much."

"No problem. Come get me if you need anything else, okay?"

Enjolras nods, and lies down. He waits until Han leaves before folding the top blanket up into a DIY body pillow and wraps his arms around it. It's not big enough to feel like Grantaire, and it can't hold him back, but it's better than nothing. He buries his face in the rough cotton folds and begins the arduous process of crying himself to sleep.

\--

It's not a good night, even by Enjolras's standards. He doesn't fall asleep for hours, and when he finally does, he has horrible nightmares and wakes up at least five different times. At one point, he finds himself sitting up in bed, grasping at his blankets, while Han asks him worriedly if he'd like a sleeping pill. He says no, because he's afraid of being stuck in his nightmares, and also because he doesn't remember waking up this time, or Han coming into his room, and he's not sure what's real and what's not. But he must fall back asleep at some point, because when morning comes, he wakes to find another nurse at his bedside.

"Hi," she says. She's much too chipper for this hour of the morning. "I'm Nathalie, and I'll be your nurse for today. Can I take your vitals?"

Enjolras mumbles something sleepy at her, but sticks out his arm on reflex. It's so early, and he's already got the beginning of a migraine, but he's going to do his best, and get the hell out of here. He can't spend another night like this.

Nathalie finishes his vitals, frowning a bit at his blood pressure, and tells him to get ready and come to breakfast in the day room. "All our guests like to eat together," she says.

 _Do they now_. Enjolras manages not to roll his eyes and goes off to get ready in the tiny bathroom. If he's going to be the new boy in the unit, he might as well look as presentable as possible. 

In the end, it's a bit of a lost cause. Fortunately, he’s allowed to wear his clothes instead of the hospital gown, but his hair is flat, and his face is pale and tired. If only he had some makeup or something, anything to make him look more respectable. It's bad enough to be in this situation, but looking ugly to boot– that's unconscionable. 

Although, it's not like the other patients would notice anything either way. When he comes into the day room, they smile kindly at him, and several of them beckon him over to their tables. They're all about forty years older than he is, and none of them look completely all-there, but their smiles do seem genuine. He decides to sit at the back table, since it's the least crowded, with only two older women placed up in wheelchairs.

"Hello," says the first one. Her voice is gravelly. "You're very pretty. Are you new here?"

Enjolras tries to smile. "Um, thank you. And yes, I got here last night."

Now the second woman reaches out and tries to grab a fistful of Enjolras's curls. He doesn't want her to, not at all, but he's so surprised that he can't seem to move, and just sits still as she hangs on and tugs. "Look how pretty," she says, not noticing his discomfort. "Such soft hair. I used to be blonde, you know."

Enjolras doesn't know what to do, but fortunately, one of the nurses comes over at this point, and wrangles the woman off him.

"Leave him alone, Edith. Remember, we need to keep our hands to ourselves."

Now Enjolras is uncomfortable for a completely different reason. This is an old woman, someone who should be treated with respect, no matter how ill she is, but the nurse is treating her like a child. It's one more glaring item on the list of things that need to be changed. 

"I don't mind," he says, but the nurse shushes him.

"That's very polite of you, dear, but Edith is working on boundaries. Let's sit nicely and eat our breakfasts, okay?"

Oh, yuck. Enjolras tries not to make a face. How is he supposed to last here?

The nurses bring everyone customized trays of breakfast, sort of like how it had been in the eating disorder hospital, but much, much fancier. There's all kinds of things on the tray, pancakes, and home fries, and a boiled egg, and a giant patty of sausage that makes Enjolras's stomach turn to look at.

"Do we really need to eat 75% of this?" he asks weakly. 

"What?" The nurse looks down at the tray, and then back at him. "No, why should you? Just eat what you can."

Okay. Well, that's an advantage to being in the general psychiatric ward. Enjolras waits for the go-ahead, only to look around and see that everyone else is eating already. Edith and her friend are smacking their lips with great gusto.

"Eat up," says the other woman. "Don't worry, you're so skinny and pretty. You're just fine."

"Oh, well thank you, but–”

"What are you, a size zero? You have such a nice petite little body. I wish I still looked like you."

"You only looked like that in your dreams, Janie," says Edith snippily, and both women laugh. Enjolras pokes at the top of his pancake stack.

"Can we swap things out here?" he asks.

"Sure. But why? Don't you like it?" Edith picks up her sausage patty and takes a big bite. A blot of grease drips onto her chin. "You should try it."

Enjolras squeaks and stands up, unsteady as a newborn kitten. He knows he should eat something, but this is truly awful. At least in the ED unit, he was allowed to craft his meals to some extent. He wobbles over to the nurse's station, situated at the end of the day room (presumably so they can keep watch over everyone) and waits for a second until they notice him.

"Excuse me?"

"Yes, dear."

"Am I allowed to switch some of my food for fruit? And coffee?"

"Whatever you want," says the nurse lazily. She doesn't even look up from her phone. "Coffee's over there, fruit's in the fridge. Help yourself."

So, that's different.

Now laden with fruit and coffee instead of greasy sausage, Enjolras comes back to the table and sits down, smiling timidly at the two women. "I got it," he says.

"Aww." Janie grins at him with oatmeal all over her teeth. "Look at you, such a skinny little thing. Wish I still looked like that."

Edith points at Enjolras's now-abandoned sausage patty. "Are you going to eat this?"

"No. Help yourself."

"Thanks."

Edith goes to town on the sausage while Enjolras picks at his fruit (squishy and old, but not bad, all things considered) and tries to ignore the sounds of chewing around him. This is the worst part about eating in public. His friends know how much the sound bothers him, and try to be quiet, and even if they forget, they're not too loud anyway. But here, no one seems to have the same scruples. It's almost ridiculous, what they sound like. But before he's too, well, _fed-up_ , there's a tap on his shoulder.

"Enjolras?"

"Oh! Yes, hello!"

Enjolras cranes his neck around, looking to see who's talking to him. It's Nathalie, and she smiles like she thinks this is cute.

"Hi, sweetie. Are you all done eating? Your team is here."

Enjolras stands up, only pausing to grab his coffee cup. It's go time now. "Okay, I'm ready."

Nathalie takes Enjolras back to his room where his team is waiting. He sits down on the bed, thankful that he'd made it before breakfast. Now, they won't think he's a slob.

"Hi," he says.

"Hello, Enjolras." A curly-haired woman comes forward, smiling gently. "My name is Émilie, and I'm your psychiatrist. It's nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you."

"This is Stella, our social worker, and Andre, our med student. We'll be your team while you're here."

Stella and Andre murmur polite hellos. They all seem friendly, though Enjolras doesn't want to let his guard down yet. That's what he'd thought about Thomas at first, too.

"How are you?" he asks.

"We're all right," says Stella. "But more importantly, how are you, Enjolras?"

Enjolras shrugs. "I'm all right. A little out of my element, but not bad, really."

"I'm sorry. I know how scary this must be for you."

"Thank you. Oh, um. Was that weird?"

"No, I don't think so. You're fine."

"Now, I know you've probably talked about what happened a lot in these past 24 hours," says Émilie, probably seeing that Enjolras is at a loss for how to reply. "But I would like to ask, because it's important that we get your side of the story. Can you tell us what happened to lead you here?"

Enjolras isn't sure where to start. He's nervous, because if he doesn't do a good job telling his story now, they'll probably keep him here forever. But he can't lie, either. He's walking a fine line between cold truth and optimism, trying to spin his admittedly-dismal story well enough to trick a team of mental health professionals into letting him go. It's a difficult task. He's one of the best when it comes to words, but he's so worn-out and exhausted, terrified and confused, and he's not at his best at all. He truly doesn't know how this will turn out. 

So he does his best, trying to be cheerful, but not flippant, persuasive, but not smarmy, charming, but not outright flirtatious. He can't tell if it's working or not, because all of them seem to have pretty good poker faces. They don't interrupt him, though, and give every impression of listening thoroughly and without judgement.

When he's finally done speaking, Andre glances down at his little notebook, where he's written a full page of cramped script, and speaks in a soft, almost diffident voice.

"First of all, I'm sorry that you've been going through all this. It sounds awful."

"Ah. Thank you."

"May I just clarify on a few points?"

"Sure."

"So, your self harm behaviors." Andre glances at Enjolras's visibly scratched wrist, and then looks away quickly, pretending he hadn't. "How long has that been going on?"

"The eating disorder, like eight years. The cutting, maybe six years. The drinking, just this past year. And anything else, all my life." Enjolras cocks his head. "Which one is the bad one?"

"Well, they're all bad. We don't want you to hurt yourself in any way."

"Oh okay. But which is the one that made them keep me here?"

"Frankly, it's a mixture. I suppose we're most acutely concerned about anything that could kill you, since you're struggling with some suicidal thoughts as well."

Enjolras nods. He'll accept this. He likes his team; Émilie seems competent and kind, and Stella is sweet, and Andre reminds him of Combeferre, right down to the glasses and long-hand notes. So, it’s easier to trust them, and he'll listen willingly to whatever hey have to say, even if it's hard to hear. 

"Okay," he says. "But you know, I do think that I have things under control."

Émilie raises an eyebrow. "But my dear, you said that if it hadn't been for your friend, you might be dead right now."

Ah, darn it. Enjolras begins to play with his hair, hoping to stimulate his brain by the indirect contact with his head. No more slip-ups allowed.

"I don't want to diminish what Cosette did," he says. "She was wonderful, and I am always going to be grateful to her. But I don't genuinely think that I would have died. I mean, it was only a razor blade."

"But you'd been drinking?"

"Well, yes. But not to an excessive degree."

"Still, that can be dangerous. It makes you bleed faster, as you know, and it weakens your judgement. It would have been easy for you to hurt yourself badly and not have the time to regret it."

Enjolras bows his head gracefully, allowing that. He still doesn't completely agree, but he knows it would be futile to argue this point any more. Seeing that he's accepted this, Andre moves on.

"So, you say you have things handled, at least to an extent. Is there anything that keeps you grounded? That is, what helps you stay safe when you're experiencing distress like this?"

This is thin ice. Enjolras has to be honest because he couldn't lie if he wanted to, but he can't say what he's really thinking, either, that it's only his own incompetence keeping him alive. So he pretends to cough while he thinks, and finally, speaks slowly.

"Well, a lot of it has to do with my friends. I love them so much, and I would do anything for them. They're my real family. So leaving them would be too sad, wouldn't it? But also, I'm a little proud of the things I'm doing in the world. I'm trying to help people, and make a difference, and maybe I'm not some amazing person who stops wars and wins prizes, but what I do helps in its way, and I think that's valuable, don't you?"

"I do." Andre smiles now, a warm, genuine glow. "Tell me more about your activism. What sorts of things do you do?"

"I'm trying to make a collection of resources," Enjolras tells him. "I realized that a lot of people who are in trouble might not know where to go, and that's scary. So I want to be able to at least recommend them to someone who can help them, even if I can't necessarily do anything myself."

"And these resources, are they social? Medical?"

"Anything I can find. People have all sorts of different problems, and they connect in lots of different ways, so it would be narrow just to focus on one category. I want to be able to work with people and get them what they need."

"I see. So you're sort of like a little social worker, are you?"

"Well, not yet. But that's the goal."

Andre, Émilie, and Stella all smile at this, and make their own versions of the aww-cute sound. Evidently, anything Enjolras says here is going to get that reaction. It's okay; he doesn't mind that much, and it might help him gain sympathy. But he wonders if the other patients get this kind of treatment. Somehow, he thinks not.

"Tell me about your friends," says Émilie now. "Are they all students as well?"

Enjolras shakes his head. "Only my friend Cosette is still in school. The others are working. Actually, my friend Combeferre works here! He's a resident."

The pride in Enjolras's voice is obvious, even to himself. He feels like one of those aunties who opens up their phone galleries at any given moment, excited to show off pictures of their loved ones. But what can he do? He _does_ love his friends, and he _is_ proud of everything they do.

Émilie doesn't seem to be complaining. She smiles kindly. "How nice. And your friends, are they interested in the same things as you are? Social justice and activism and such?"

"Yes! In fact, some of them are helping me with the resource project. Grantaire, who's my boyfriend, and Cosette and Combeferre, whom I mentioned, and Courfeyrac, who's my other roommate, all of them are helping me a lot! But even the ones who aren't helping with that are really interested."

"So you would say that you're pretty close with them?"

A couple months ago, Enjolras would have felt guilty about saying yes. But now, he nods, and doesn't feel much more than a lingering sense of unease. Yes, he still feels like a burden, but he can semi-confidently declare his friends to be an important part of his life now, and not feel too bad about it. Look at that, it's progress! 

He can't tell his team this, though, so he curbs his reaction, and tries to act poised. "I love them all. They're so special to me. We have a lot in common, so that's nice, but more importantly, I know they'll always be there for me, and vice versa."

Andre scribbles something down in his notebook. Enjolras can see that at least part of it looks like a large smiley face. "So it sounds like they're a good support network for you."

"They are."

"That's wonderful." Now Andre looks up, and his face is suddenly serious once again. "Now, I'm sorry to change the subject back to more serious matters, but, well. Your parents. Can you tell me about them?"

"About them?"

"Yes. History of mental illness, behavior, how they treat you, all that. Just give us a bit of background."

"Oh, well." Enjolras starts playing with his hair, needing something to do with his hands. He can't very well scratch himself in front of his psych team, after all. "So, they're both upper-class, privileged, all that. No diagnosed mental illnesses for either of them, although I have my suspicions. They run in 'liberal' circles, so they think they're progressive, but in reality, they're just as mean as any of the conservatives we know. That is, I shouldn't complain. They've done a lot for me. But, they're not _nice_."

"What do you mean by that?"

What _does_ he mean by that? He struggles, trying to come up with concrete examples. Yes, he knows that what his parents do is bad, but he needs something real, something that will let his team know he's not faking it. 

"They use me as a toy," he says finally. "They have absolutely no regard for my feelings. I think most of the reason they were so accepting when I came out was because they got a second chance at making me into some doll, because they can't seem to understand that I've been a boy all my life, and this isn't some new phenomenon for me. They slap me in front of guests, and make me flirt with people who need entertaining, and go through my stuff if I don't hide it, and just… they're not very nice."

"It doesn't sound like it," agrees Andre neutrally. 

"That's why I got so scared when I heard that they wanted me to go back with them." Enjolras doesn't know if his team has heard this part of the story yet, so he decides to tell it anyway, just to be safe. They can stop him if they want.

They don't. Émilie nods at him. "Tell us more about that."

"Right. Okay." Enjolras clenches his fists in his lap, holding himself together. "So, my friend Montparnasse, who's really smart and knows lots of things, he told me that my parents are worried that I haven't been succeeding, and they want to take me home to stay with them until I start doing better. They haven't said anything to me yet, but I know they will, because Montparnasse is always right. He always has good information."

"What kind of information?" asks Émilie, intrigued, but then shakes her head. "No, never mind. I believe it. But why do your parents want to pull you out of school? Don't they want you to get your degree?"

"They do, but they want to keep an eye on me more. They visited me here last quarter, and they didn't like how I've been behaving. They told me that almost every day during winter break."

"But how have you been behaving?"

"Too much volunteer work, not enough paid work or internships. Too much hanging around with my friends. And too much 'letting myself go,' which could mean a lot of things. I'm pretty sure they want me to go home and take my coursework through UCLA online, since to their eyes, I’m unreliable.”

"I see. But you don't want to do that.”

Enjolras shakes his head vehemently. "No, they're so mean. I might really die if I had to go back there. I don't want them to control me anymore."

"I see." Andre makes a few last notes on his clipboard, and glances at the others. "I think that's all the questions I have. Is there anything else?"

"No, that should be it for now." Émilie smiles at Enjolras, kind, if a little sad. "We'll be back later. In the meantime, try to make the most of your time here. It could be good."

Enjolras doesn't have anything to say to that, so he waves to his team and lets them leave before flopping down onto his bed, discouraged and worn-out. The meeting may have gone well (he really doesn't know), but he's losing hope of having anything good come out of this situation. The best he can hope is that it doesn't blow his life to smithereens.

He spends the next hour napping lightly in the too-cold blankets, until he wakes up, shaking with the remnants of a nightmare. Then, since he's too wired to go back to sleep, he lies still, pondering what to do, until Nathalie comes back in to do vitals.

"There's a process group soon," she says, once she's logged everything, and Enjolras has settled back down into the bed. "You should go if you can. It would be good for you."

"It's optional?"

Groups in the ED ward had been compulsory. Everything from OT to process, all of it was mandated and strictly enforced. But now, Nathalie nods.

"Yes, everything here is optional. People don't always attend groups regularly. But we recommend you participate. If we see that you're making an effort, we know that you're getting better, and we'll feel better about releasing you."

Oh. That settles it, then. Enjolras gets off the bed. "I'll go."

Nathalie smiles. "Good boy."

\--

Back in the ED ward, process had been Enjolras's simultaneous favorite and least favorite part of he day (aside from individual therapy, but that happened with much less regularity). It had been painful and difficult, and often, he couldn't find the courage or strength to talk, but it had always helped, and left him feeling a little better at the end. So he's almost excited about this process group now, curious as to how it might be.

His first thought is that it's small. Nathalie hadn't been lying when she said attendance was sporadic; there are only about five people in the day room, and two of them are nurses. The others are sitting patiently around one of the tables. They’re not talking, but they look friendly enough, so Enjolras goes and sits down with them.

At first, none of them acknowledge his presence, but then one of the old women points at him. She doesn't say anything, just raises a gnarled finger and jabs it in his direction. Slowly, all the other heads swivel to stare.

Enjolras feels his face go hot in embarrassment. Maybe he's not supposed to be here after all. "What is it?" he asks.

The old woman continues pointing. Her face is very solemn. Finally, she speaks in a slow, sonorous voice.

"An angel."

"What?"

"You."

"Oh." Enjolras isn't terribly surprised by this. He's been called an angel so many times in his life that even now, when it seems more ominous than anything else, it's still not very unnerving. It's kind of flattering, actually. He smiles. "My name's Enjolras."

"I watched you at breakfast," says another patient now, a man in his mid-thirties. "You ate fruit."

Okay, well, that's a little weirder. Still, Enjolras is going to be polite. "I like fruit," he says. The man positively leers at him.

"I like you."

There's nothing Enjolras can really say to this, so he smiles as best he can and makes some sort of interested sound. The man gets closer.

"You're so pretty. How old are you?"

“Twenty.”

"So young. Young and pretty. You dating anybody?"

Even in the goddamn psychiatric hospital. Enjolras suppresses a groan. "Yes," he says. "I have a boyfriend. And he's the greatest guy in the world."

The man doesn't even look fazed. "Well, he's not here, is he?"

Fortunately, the therapist comes in at this point, and process group can begin. It's a relief. Enjolras isn't sure what he would have done otherwise. It's not like there's a ton of places for him to run and hide in here.

Process group turns out to be different from the ones he's used to both in size _and_ in style. The therapist is nice, but right away, it's clear she doesn't have much of an idea of how to talk to neuroatypical people.

"So," she says, and her voice is purposefully bright, in that too-special way, "I thought that today, we could talk about journaling."

Journaling? Enjolras is confused. In the ED ward, process had been all about the patients. People had gotten the chance to talk about what was bothering them (or wasn't), under the supervision– not presiding influence– of a therapist. Certainly, it hadn't been any lecture-style group like this seems to be. 

But it's okay. He'll go along with it. Anything to get him out of here, after all.

"Does anyone keep a journal?" asks the psychiatrist. Everyone shakes their heads. "Well, it can be a great way to center yourself. I think it would help each and every one of you."

"I don't have the energy for that," says one of the old women. The others nod in agreement, but the psychiatrist doesn't seem bothered.

"Well, yes. Time management can be hard. But you have to prioritize. What if you devote one hour of goofing off to journaling instead?"

 _Goofing off_? These patients are older than the psychiatrist is. She has no right to talk to them this way. Enjolras tries not to frown. He can't call her out right now, not like this, but he's furious. 

"I think what auntie means is that sometimes it's hard to get the energy to do anything at all," he says, measuring each word with care. "We're not always _goofing off_ when we're failing to do anything productive. Sometimes, we're just struggling to survive."

The old woman nods at Enjolras, smiling brightly. "That's right. That's exactly it."

"Hmm, I see." The psychiatrist doesn't look convinced at all. "Well, you know what, journaling will help with that."

So, that's how it's going to be. Enjolras shuts off and stays mostly quiet for the rest of the time, only interjecting when the psychiatrist asks him a question, or when no one else is speaking and the silence is too awkward to bear. All in all, it's a thoroughly unproductive session. Aside from getting him out quickly, he's not sure why Nathalie thought it would help him. 

After about fifty minutes of journal advice and slightly-condescending lecturing about prioritization, there's a knock on the door, and one of the nurses comes in. 

"Enjolras?"

Enjolras raises his hand. "That's me."

"You have a phone call."

Enjolras fairly darts up out of his seat. Could it be one of his friends? They're the only people who know he's here. Sure, he hates phone calls most of the time, but right now, it feels like a lifeline. He follows the nurse out to the payphones, jittery with excitement.

"You have fifteen minutes," the nurse tells him, but gives him a little wink. "I'm not watching the clock. Just so you know."

Enjolras smiles and thanks her, feeling only slightly guilty (because he's not under any illusions that anyone besides him can have the stringent house rules bent in their favor), and picks up the phone. This might help him more than any kind of process group, and he's ready.

"Hello?"

"Enjolras."

Enjolras feels his heart stop beating, go cold, send icicles all the way to the tips of each finger. That's not any of his friends' voices– it's stern, clipped, and just this side of too proper. He brings a hand up to scratch at the wrist that's holding the phone, feeling like his blood has turned to lead.

"Hi, Mom."

"So, I heard you're in the hospital," says his mom, without preamble. "What happened?"

Enjolras doesn't even know how to begin. He stares at his reflection in the metal plates of the phone jack, wondering how soon the disgusting being that's himself can be erased from the world. Have his eyes always been so tortured? No wonder people don't like him; he must make them feel so awkward. 

"I'm sorry," he says.

"You say you're sorry, but you went ahead and did this, didn't you?" His mom sighs. "Enjolras, do you ever think about the things you do before you do them?"

"I'm sorry. I really am."

Another sigh. "All right. Well, do you know how long you're going to be in there?"

"At least 72 hours."

"Great. Just great." 

 _I know_ , Enjolras wants to say, but he can't, not now. So he apologizes again. "I wish this wasn't happening, too. I'm sorry. I'll try to make it up."

His mom sighs again, completely exasperated. "It's a little too late for that, isn't it? Just try not to let anyone know where you are."

"But my professors…”

"All right, fine. But they don't have to know you're in an insane asylum, do they?"

"It's not–”

"Shut up."

Okay. Enjolras resumes staring at his reflection. It's interesting, in a strange sort of way. Is that who he is? What he looks like? Actually, who _is_ he? Is there anything more to him than the slightly bug-eyed blond apparition staring at him from the polished steel wall plate?

His mom wouldn't say so. She continues to talk at him for the next five minutes, telling him exactly how bad it is that he's in here, and why he should be ashamed of himself. It's de rigeur; Enjolras knows all these things already, and after awhile, he's shifting around uncomfortably, somehow both anxious and bored.

"I have to go," he says as soon as there's a break in the diatribe. "We're not supposed to be on the phone very long here, you know."

"How much trouble are you really going to get into, anyway? You're already locked up in there."

"No, I know, but I want to get out quickly. I have to go by the rules."

"You, going by the rules. That'd be the day." Enjolras's mom laughs, somewhat nastily. "Maybe putting you in there did some good after all."

Enjolras thinks this is a little unfair, because, yes, he does have a certain disdain for a lot of different rules, but he rarely acts on that around his parents. They tend to think of him as much more rebellious than he really is, taking any act of defiance that he dares to do as proof that his inner insurgent is coming out. Someday, he's going to conquer his fear of them and prove their complaints true, but for now, he just mumbles something and repeats his wish to hang up.

"I really do need to go."

"Fine." His mom sniffs, a bitterly contemptuous sort of sound. "Just don't embarrass us, all right? Be good in there. Behave."

"I will."

"I'll talk to you later."

_Please don't._

Enjolras hangs up the phone, and sits for a second more, just trying to compose himself. So, his parents know he's in here. That's wonderful. How did they even find out? Surely the insurance couldn't have alerted them so quickly. Unless maybe someone called them? It doesn't seem like something that anyone should do, but then again, this whole trip is basically an out-of-body experience. Anything could happen now, and Enjolras wouldn't even be surprised.

He finally decides to go back and sit in his room until the next fake-mandatory activity, so he can be miserable in peace without risking anyone seeing him and deciding he needs to be locked up in solitary confinement or something. He gets up from the phone booth (which isn't really a booth, just a counter with zero privacy) and starts to walk back down the hallway, but before he's taken three steps, the old woman from process group is getting right up in his space.

"Angel!"

Enjolras takes a step backwards, out of necessity. She's not stopping, and it looks like she's about to knock him over. "Hi, auntie."

"Oh, call me Janice! That's my name. Do you have a name?"

"I'm Enjolras."

"Enj- angel?"

"Um, close enough."

Janice takes another step forward. They're practically nose-to-nose now. "Angel, I could tell from the moment I saw you. You're so beautiful and full of light. I know you're a good person. Will you help me?"

That's a lot of commendation from someone who's known him for all of an hour. Still, Enjolras has never been one to ignore a request for help, so he puts aside his melancholy for now and smiles.

"Of course. What can I do?"

"Bless you, bless you! I knew you were good. Oh dear, I hope you can help me."

"I'll try. What's the matter?"

"Well, you see, it's my husband! He won't pick up the phone, and I don't know what to do, because I need to talk to him. But maybe he'll talk to you. Will you call him?"

"I'm not sure I'm allowed to…”

"Please?"

Enjolras feels sympathy squeeze his heart. This poor woman; she must feel so abandoned and frightened, all alone, separated from everyone she knows and loves. And her husband, the one who's supposed to be there for her no matter what, isn't picking up his phone. It's a bad situation all around. So,

"I'll help you," he says.

Janice claps her hands together, almost like he does when he's excited. It's charming. "How wonderful! Thank you so much. I knew you were good!"

Enjolras really isn't. But he's not going to contradict Janice.

He doesn't know how to make phone calls here, only receive them, and he _definitely_ doesn't know how to make possibly-shady calls on someone else's behalf, so he decides to get a nurse. They should be able to help, hopefully. With this in mind, he smiles and beckons at Janice.

"Come on, let's go find your nurse. Do you know their name?"

"Oh my." Janice shakes her head. "You know, I have some problems with memory. I couldn't tell you for the life of me who anyone is here."

"Oh. Well, let's go look for them, okay?"

Janice happily follows Enjolras as he goes in search of a nurse, any nurse to help him. Truthfully, he has no idea where he's going, but Janice doesn't seem to notice, and keeps up a stream of conversation, explaining what she's doing here, and what– and whom– she's left behind. 

"I have three kids," she says. "The youngest one is about your age. Her name is Lisa. You should meet her. You'd like her!"

"I'm sure I would."

"And my husband, too. He's not always very nice, but he would like you. I'm sure he would. You're so sweet and pretty. I hope you can meet them all."

"That sounds nice."

"Maybe you can meet them today! They come and visit me at night, you know. I can introduce you."

"That would be lovely."

By now, they're at the day room. There's a lot of nurses clustered around, and they don't seem too busy, so Enjolras goes up to them.

"Excuse me?"

Some of them don't notice, but Nathalie does, maybe because she's his designated nurse and therefore has some kind of a psychic bond with him. "Oh, hi Enjolras. What's up?"

"Um, it's Janice." Enjolras gestures at her, as if he needs to specify which Janice it is. "She needs to make a phone call, but she wants me to do it. And I'm not sure if that's allowed, so…”

"She's asking you to make a call?" Nathalie taps Janice on the shoulder to get her attention. "Did you use up all your calls for today?"

Janice nods, slightly shamefaced. "I just want to talk to my husband."

"I know you do, but you can't take one of Enjolras's calls. It doesn't work like that."

"Oh dear, but I want to talk to my husband. Can't I just call?”

At this point, the doors to the day room open, and one of the therapists comes out. She's brandishing a large clipboard that says "OT" on it. Enjolras sees his chance.

"Janice," he says. "Listen, why don't we go in and join the OT group? I'm sure they would be happy to have us." _Right_? Fortunately, the therapist nods. 

"Come on. We're cooking today."

Oh, that's great. More proof that the universe hates Enjolras and everything he is. 

But, he's not going to let his own issues take precedence right now. Janice needs someone to watch out for her, and for whatever reason, her nurse isn't doing that, so he's been adopted for the role. Which is fine. He's always here to help, and he’s going to do his best.

Even if it involves cooking.

The class is bigger than the process group had been. This makes sense; OT is more appealing than group therapy in pretty much every way, especially if it involves food (or at least Enjolras would guess this to be the case, because although he can't relate, he knows that most people are supposed to love eating). This is probably one of the most popular activities of the day. 

It turns out they're all collaborating on making a dessert to be eaten with lunch in the next hour. Enjolras isn't exactly how they plan on doing this in such a short amount of time, but he has to admit, he's not the greatest cook in the world, so maybe there's some unknown bakers' secret here that will speed up the process and get them sweets with minimal effort and time. 

He helps to wipe down the tables and lay sanitary cloths down, and once this is done, washes his hands and helps Janice and some of the other less mobile patients put on hand sanitizer and gloves.

"It's important to be clean," he says, demonstrating by pulling on a pair of his own. "See? They fit."

"But my hands are clean," argues Janice. "I haven't touched anything."

"But you have to touch the food. This way, you can keep your hands safe."

"Why do I have to touch the food?" one of the other patients wants to know, though by now, he's making a reach for one of the bowls. Enjolras intercepts him quickly and squirts a dollop of hand sanitizer on him. 

"You don't have to. But what if it gets on you by mistake? Wouldn't you rather be clean?"

The man concedes this point and accepts the gloves that Enjolras gives him next, but it's too early to celebrate success, because then Janice gets up and starts to wander away. Enjolras has to leap up and track her down and back into her seat.

"Come on," he coaxes. "It's going to be fun. We're going to cook together! And then after lunch, we can take care of other business. Okay?"

By now, there are about five different nurses in the room, all standing around and watching. None of them make a move to help. Enjolras makes puppy eyes at them.

"We're going to start the activity now, aren't we?" he asks.

Fortunately, the OT takes pity on him. "Yes," she says. "Sit down, everyone. Let's go over rules."

It turns out there's a lot of rules about cooking in the hospital. No one's allowed to use knives except under the direct supervision of the OT or the nurses, and measuring has to be done with at least one other person, and all recipes have to be read aloud as they're followed. It's a little stringent, but Enjolras doesn't mind. It sort of gives a structure to the terrifying ordeal that is cooking.

He ends up at a table with Janice, Janie-and-Edith-from-breakfast, and the man who'd flirted with him earlier, whose name turns out to be Jefferson. He's not any less overpowering than he was before.

"I see you're already cooking for me," he says. Enjolras tries not to roll his eyes.

"We're all cooking together."

The OT passes out mixing bowls and jars of ingredients. She seems to recognize that Enjolras is more mobile than many of the others, since a lot of them are in wheelchairs or otherwise less than ambulatory, and starts treating him as her right-hand man, asking him to pass out ingredients and show the others how to mix.

Which is fine. Enjolras tries to treat it as a science lab, telling himself that it's not really _food_ he's making, just an interesting chemical mixture. His help is important for the others, and they seem to be enjoying themselves, so he can do this because it's not for him. 

What he's less eager to accept, though, is the blatant favoritism that the OT and the nurses are showing him. It's not even flattering, because there's such a difference in the way they treat him versus how they treat the others. With him, it's _sweetie_ and _honey_ and _could you take care of this for me_ and _Janice is wandering off again, can you go get her_. He's a patient like everyone else, but they're treating him as a beloved, albeit miniature, member of the staff. He feels sort of like a Shetland pony in the midst of a pack of Clydesdales. 

With the others, though, the attitude is very different. "Edith," calls one of the nurses from her seat (which she hasn't moved from all hour), snapping her fingers as if she's calling a dog. "Hands to yourself. Stop that. Give Enjolras that spoon."

Edith looks disappointed, but hands it over. Enjolras gives her an apologetic smile. "Thank you."

"Why can't we help?" Janice wants to know. "We can cook, too."

Enjolras doesn't know what to say. It's clear that they really _can't_ cook. Between the motor issues and the lack of cohesion and the general confusion, this therapy session seems to be mostly a spectator sport. Why the OT had chosen cooking at all is beyond him. But he can't leave it like this. There has to be something he can do.

"I know you can help,” he says. "And right now, I'm going to need you to. But it's going to take a lot of teamwork. Can you do that?"

The other patients look at each other, seemingly sizing up their potential groupmates. Then, Janie squares her shoulders.

"We can do it."

"Great."

Enjolras gives the empty mixing bowl to Jefferson, _not_ wincing when their hands accidentally-on-purpose make contact. "Here you go. Can you put the ingredients in here? And Janie," he hands the recipe paper over, "Can you read the recipe? Loud and clear, so we can all hear it."

Jefferson and Janie smile, pleased. Janice taps the table. "Angel! What can I do?"

Enjolras gives her the spoon in his hand. "You have a _very_ important job. You get to mix the bowl. Can you do that?"

"I can!"

Now Enjolras turns to Edith, who's been watching the scene unfold with only slightly more patience. "Okay," he says. "Are you ready?"

Edith nods eagerly. "What do I do?"

Enjolras points at Janice, now waving the spoon in front of her like an off-beat conductor. "You see, Janice is very strong. She's going to mix the ingredients, but she's going to need someone to hold the bowl. Do you think you can do that?"

Edith breaks into a full-on grin. "I can do it!"

She wheels her chair over to Janice, who's also smiling, happy at being called strong, and they get into position. Enjolras mentally high-fives himself. Score one for Angel. 

There's two people at the other table, neither of whom Enjolras knows, but when he catches sight of them watching his little party longingly, he knows his work isn't done yet. He gives temporary command to Janie, who seems to be the most aware of what's going on, and walks over to the table.

"Hi," he says. "Do you want to help us?"

"Can we?" The woman looks around, then leans in close. "The nurse said we can't." The man nods agreement, and she taps him on the arm in thanks. "It's true."

Okay, what? Are nurses restricting people from receiving therapy now? Enjolras clenches his jaw. This is not right. 

"You can," he says. "I promise. Come on, I'll help you. We'll all work together, okay?"

He makes sure to look the nurses right in the eyes as he brings the other people back to the table. They're not going to hold anyone back from treatment, regardless of their personal feelings about disabilities. This is a hospital, and if any place should be equal-opportunity, this is it.

"Guys, these two are going to help," he says. The man and woman wave.

"I'm Judy," says the woman. "That's James. He doesn't talk much."

"Great." Enjolras puts a bowl in front of them both. "We're going to mix the wet ingredients together over here while they mix the dry ones. They have a head start, though, so we have to work hard to catch up. Can we do it?"

Judy nods. "We can."

This turns out to be an overstatement. Judy and James, while enthusiastic, are not terribly good at cooking, and end up leaving most of the work to Enjolras. Enjolras doesn't mind this, but it does give him less time to help the others. Jefferson is _not_ good at measuring, and Edith can't seem to hold the bowl still so Janice can stir it. It’s all beginning to resemble one of the Play-Doh factories that Enjolras created in elementary school.

If only the nurses would help; they're all sitting and watching the cooking party unfold as if it's a bit of top-quality media entertainment. Occasionally, they'll call out something vaguely condescending, and the others will laugh.

"Let's hurry it up!" says the OT eventually, though she, too, is sitting down and not doing anything to speed the process along. "Come on, Enjolras, we need to finish in time for lunch. Let's move it."

Enjolras oh-so-briefly considers leaving and seeing how far the enterprise will get without his help, but just as quickly, he stops himself with a frown and a subtle slap on the arm. That wouldn't be fair to the other patients.

"I'm doing my best," he says instead, falsely cheery.

Somehow, everything does get finished within the hour. Enjolras doesn't even know how; it would be an impressive feat even for someone who's not him. But before the clock strikes noon, the OT is putting the cake in the oven (patients aren't allowed near hot surfaces) and directing Enjolras to clean the utensils. 

"Just wash and dry, thanks," she says off-handedly, before turning to the rest of the group. "Now! How did everyone like that activity?"

The patients murmur among themselves, fortunately sounding happy rather than upset. Janie raises her hand.

"I thought it was nice. I haven't cooked for awhile, so it was good to get back into it."

"I liked it too," says Jefferson. "It was fun working all together."

Janice stands up. She still has a spoon, probably because no one had the heart to take it from her, and she waves it above her head for attention. 

"Can I just say something?"

The OT nods. "Sure. Go ahead, Janice."

Janice does. "I just want to say, Angel is the best person I've ever met in my life, and I have never known anyone so sweet or pretty or nice, and I know, I _know_ ,” Here, she points the spoon right at Enjolras. "Heaven will bless you, Angel. Because you're blessing all of us right now."

Jefferson thumps on the table. "Hear, hear!"

Enjolras doesn't even know how to reply. He blushes and looks at the floor and twirls his hair, and finally manages to stutter out an inadequate thank-you, too touched for words. What a sweet and precious thing to hear. He really isn't anything special, definitely not what Janice says he is, but it's leaving him choked up anyway. 

"Okay," says the OT, clearly not pleased. "Thank you. Does anyone else have anything to say?"

No one does. It's really awkward. Enjolras sits for five whole seconds before steeling himself and raising his hand.

"I thought it was nice," he offers. "It's nice to make something when we're feeling bad. And now we have cake!"

The patients and nurses laugh, but the OT just narrows her lips. "Okay. Great. Anyone else?"

Enjolras looks down at the table, pouting. What's she so mad about, anyway? If she didn't want him to take charge, she should have stepped in herself. She can't blame the people for organizing in the absence of reasonable authority. 

Well, whatever. It's okay. The other patients seem happy, and that's what matters. Maybe the OT is just having an off day or something. It happens.

\--

After lunch (which is just as massively-sized and inedible as breakfast), Enjolras keeps his promise and delivers Janice to the charge nurse to make her phone call. She asks him to stay while she's calling, but the charge nurse waves him on his way, and he goes, after reassuring her that everything will be okay, and she can do this. She practically breaks down in tears at this point, thanking him for being so kind and good and such a light in the world.

Of course, this is nice to hear. Enjolras doesn't feel that he really deserves it, though, because after all, he hasn't really done anything special, so he tries his best to brush it off without hurting her feelings. 

"I'm glad you feel better," he ends up saying, rather self-consciously. "I hope I could help. I'll, um, I'll be in my room."

And off he goes, ready to sit back down on his bed and think about the multitudinous miseries of life once again.

He should really thank the night nurse for letting him have paper and a pen. Right now, it's pretty much all that's standing between him and death by boredom and utter, miserable despair. He sits down at the writing desk, feeling deliciously like a 19th century pamphlet-writer, and begins to record everything that's happened to him in the past day or so, starting with his visit to CAPS. There's a lot to say, but fortunately (or probably unfortunately, really), time is no short supply around here.

He gets through most of the previous day and this morning before he gets bored. Sure, it's important to document his experiences for hard data, but it's not as interesting as something that isn't primarily centered him. Sometimes (all the time), he gets really sick of himself, so writing his own tragic memoirs for hours on end isn't exactly his idea of a good time. So, he ends up beginning to draft a speech on the necessities of healthcare reform, and the ways in which it could be implemented in the current sociopolitical climate.

It's engaging. It's important.

He just wishes he didn't have to be stuck here to do it.

As he writes, people keep coming by. Some are nurses, checking vitals, making sure he's all right, keeping tabs on him. This is fine. He knows it's to be expected. What he's less fond of, though, is all the patients who keep coming and staring at him through his open door. He feels like a zoo exhibit, or a prisoner in a panopticon; people are literally standing and watching him for minutes on end, availing themselves of the new spectacle in the ward. It's distracting and weird, but he tries his best to tune them all out.

By around 3:30, he's had enough. His head is spinning, too full of angsty, self-loathing thoughts to be able to concentrate (because really, what right does he have to propose change when he can't even avoid being 5150-ed?), and he's tired from his sleeplessness the night before, so he decides to take a little nap. It shouldn't be a dubious thing Lots of people take naps. If a nurse comes in, he can just tell them he was tired, and hopefully they won't take it as evidence of severe mental illness (though of course, it really is). Still, he feels like a criminal as he crawls into bed, and it's a long time before he can quiet his nerves enough to sleep.

He's roused from a fitful and thoroughly unrestful slumber by the intercom, proclaiming that it's dinner time, and that everyone should come to the day room. He starts awake, realizes the room is dark, and rubs his eyes in half-sleepy confusion. Geez, how long has he been out? It has to be at least 6 by now. Still lint-eyed and disoriented, he gets out of bed and pads to the bathroom to freshen up his bed hair before he goes to meet everyone else. 

By the time he gets to the day room, everyone else is eating. The head nurse on duty waves him over and sits him down at a table with Janice and some other patients, gesturing at his tray with a dramatic hand.

"Your delectable repast, monsieur."

A little weird, but cute. Enjolras smiles up at her. "Thank you."

The nurse smiles back. "My pleasure. Let me know if you need anything."

"Angel!" Janice reaches across the table to grab at him, barely missing his bowl of salad. For a second, he has the deja-vu thought that she's about to pull his hair, but fortunately, she settles for pinching his cheek instead. "I missed you! Did you know that? I didn't see you all afternoon."

Enjolras nods, feeling inexplicably guilty. "Yes, I'm sorry. I was feeling a little tired."

"Did you sleep? Can you sleep?"

"I slept for a bit," Enjolras tells her. He's not really sure why she's asking if he _can_ sleep, but maybe it's just common politeness. A lot of people have issues with it, for sure, probably here, especially.

But now she grunts ponderously into her meatloaf. "I see. So even angels can sleep. Isn't that funny!"

There's really no good way to reply to that. Enjolras just smiles, and starts rearranging the food on his plate. It's too much. He's not going to eat it. Even if he ate meat (which he doesn't and hasn't for years), he wouldn't want this, because it's way too heavy, and definitely not okay, especially given the huge amount of food he's eaten already. Breakfast _and_ lunch, gosh. He's going to burst by the time he gets out of here.

"Is everything all right?" comes a sudden voice at his elbow. He looks up, startled, and sees the head nurse standing over him, holding several cartons of juice. She looks sort of concerned, too. "I saw your file just now. I realize eating is hard for you. Is there anything that would be easier to get down?"

"Oh." Enjolras shakes his head. He hates to be a bother. "It's okay, thank you so much. I'll do my best, so don't worry."

"Hmm. But you know, it's my job. I'm here to make sure you're as comfortable as possible. Really, is there anything I can do? I don't want you to starve."

 _I already ate a food pantry's worth of calories today, so there's no possibility of that_ , Enjolras thinks, acerbic even in his own thoughts. Why are people always trying to get him to eat things? It's so annoying. But the nurse means well. It's not her fault. He smiles up at her.

"I won't starve. I had some fruit and rice earlier, so I'm good. But thank you! I really do appreciate it."

"Fruit and rice?" The nurse wrinkles her nose. "All right, my dear. How would you like a Boost drink?"

Ugh, Boost. Enjolras _hates_ Boost. It's so thick and viscous, and it always feels like a failure, because _hey, look at that, you failed the simplest possible task, so now you get the Shame Smoothie_! It's almost as embarrassing as eating actual food, to be honest.

So, he frowns down at the Sizzler-sized portion on his tray, desperately wishing for the magical ability to shrink things into fairy dust. "It's all right. I'll eat some of this. I promise."

"Okay." The nurse frowns, clearly unconvinced, but she pats him on the shoulder. "If you need anything, though, just let me know. I'm always here."

"Thank you."

How much more embarrassing can it get? Enjolras keeps his eyes down and steadfastly ignores all the curious stares from around the table.

"You can't eat?" asks Janice. "Why? Are you having surgery?"

It would be a good excuse, but Enjolras is too distressingly honest, even when it comes to saving his own skin, so he shakes his head. "No, it's not that. I just have trouble sometimes, is all."

"Are you sick?"

"Everyone's sick in here."

"Are you on a diet?"

"Okay, leave him alone," orders the nurse, just as Enjolras thinks he's about to expire from embarrassment. She shakes her head at Janice. "Come on, now. Let the poor boy eat his dinner. He's got to finish up before his visitors get here."

On the word _visitors_ , Enjolras straightens, spine pulled up like a puppet's string. Suddenly, he couldn't care less about any embarrassment, or nosy fellow patients, or even inch-thick slabs of meatloaf sitting on his plate and taunting him. He looks up at the nurse pleadingly.

"Did you say I'm going to have visitors?"

"Yes, someone named Courfeyrac? And some others. I didn't catch all the names."

Enjolras has to grip the arms of his chair to keep from clapping like an excited child. His friends are coming! They haven't forgotten him, and they're coming! He tries to stay calm, not show too much of his hand, but he can't help smiling, and he knows he's bouncing up and down a little bit. 

"Thank you so much," he says.

"Don't thank me, dear. Thank your friends." The nurse points down at the table now, cutting his next flow of speech short. "Come on, eat what you can. They'll be here any minute."

Enjolras feels sort of like a grade-school child, but he's not going to complain. It's not the time for that. He turns his attentions to his food instead, and manages to get down some potatoes and vegetables before he starts thinking too much about what he's doing and has to push the tray away. Still, it must be okay, because the nurse just takes his tray with a composed sort of smile.

"You ate vegetables," says Janice. Enjolras nods, trying to squelch the rush of shame and embarrassment that comes from anyone pointing out that he's eaten something. 

"They're healthy."

"My kids would never eat their vegetables."

So, it's story time, not mockery time. That's a relief. Enjolras sits still and tries to listen as attentively as he can, although his heart is going speed-racing, and he can't stop tapping his fingers on the table. He really does want to listen to what Janice has to say, and he wants to be here for her, but he's buzzing with nervous energy, barely able to contain it. He can't stop _thinking_ , can't quiet his brain enough to listen well, and although Janice doesn't seem to notice, this says more about her than him.

He's just beginning to think he won't be able to hold out anymore, when clear as a bell, he hears his name ring out from across the dayroom.

"Enjolras!"

Enjolras would know that voice anywhere. He stutters to his feet, almost knocking the chair over in his haste, and attempts to stumble forward without undue ungainliness (a lost cause, but at least he tries). 

"You're here!"

Time seems to lapse as he pushes through the crowded day room, and for a second, it's all a pure, unquantifiable blur in which nothing and everything seems to exist too much at once, but then there's a pair of strong arms around him, hot lips on his temple, and a deep, rough voice saying his name over and over again like a prayer.

"Enjolras, dear heart, my poor brave little angel, you're here, you're really here. Are you okay? Oh lord I can't believe they did this to you. Here, look at me, please look at me. I need to see you."

Enjolras can't kiss right now. He's too overwhelmed. But he does fight back the anxiety and look up. "Grantaire!"

Whatever's in his eyes is enough to make Grantaire's face crumple. He crushes Enjolras to him, tight as tight can be. "I'm not going to let you go," he says, too quietly for anyone else to hear. "They can't keep you here. I'm going to take you away with me."

Enjolras isn't sure how he feels about that (it's too appealing of an idea, even though it would get them all in serious trouble), but he doesn't have time to process it, because Courfeyrac, tired of being patient, grabs hold of him for his own hug.

"I'm here too!"

Enjolras goes to him willingly. "Courfeyrac," he says, and stops there, because his heart feels close to exploding. He's still overwhelmed, still anxious, and now, the weight of the day is starting to crash down on him. His friends have brought him back to reality, and he's grateful, but still, reality is a lot to deal with, and he doesn't know how to begin.

Courfeyrac, seeming to notice his distress, pats him and kisses him all over. He's warm and soft, comforting where Grantaire is protective. "Shh, shh," he murmurs. "Sweet baby, it's okay. It's okay, honey. We have you."

"Please stay here. Please don't leave me."

Enjolras would slap himself for saying something like that, especially in a time and place like this, but his hands are all tangled up in Courfeyrac's coat, and besides, everyone's watching. So he hides his face, childishly hoping that this will make him invisible.

"Sorry," he says, muffled, and then, because his brain clearly hates him, "please."

"I won't leave you," Courfeyrac tells him immediately. But he must realize that this is a promise he can't keep, because he coughs lightly. "I mean, in spirit. And when you get out, I won't leave your side. I promise."

This is right. This is how it should be. Enjolras can't expect anything more. But he can't hold back an involuntary noise of distress, even though he belatedly tries to muffle it against Courfeyrac's shirt.

"Stay here."

"I wish I could, darling. But please be brave. You'll be out soon. And in the meantime, we're all here."

They are. It's like a miracle. Enjolras doesn't think he could ever do anything in this world to be deserving of his wonderful friends. He lifts his head again.

"I love you."

"We all love you, too."

That's not Courfeyrac's voice. Enjolras pulls away to look. "'Ferre?"

"It's me." 

Combeferre reaches for him, and he presses himself up against him, clutching the front of his sweater in both hands. "'Ferre!"

"Sweetheart."

Neither of them says anything else for a second. Enjolras can't, and Combeferre maybe doesn't want to. He's never been as verbal as Enjolras is, and he must realize that his embrace says enough. But finally, Enjolras steps back, only enough to take his hands and look up at him.

"Oh, 'Ferre. I'm so glad you're here. I thought about you in the emergency room, you know. I tried to psychically project my thoughts to your unit. Did you hear me?"

Combeferre blinks several times. If Enjolras wasn't holding his hands, he'd probably be wiping at his eyes. "No, I… I think the walls must have gotten in your way. But I'm here now."

Enjolras cozies up close to cling again. He's too far gone to feel bad about wanting physical comfort; the hospital has reduced him to a baby state, and all he can do is cry and demand cuddles. He's aware of this, knows that he's being silly and selfish, and he knows he's going to feel bad about it later, but for now, Combeferre is so warm, and it feels so good to be held.

It all must have a serious effect on him, though, because when he finally steps away, he notices that he's crying, and has been for some time. Puzzling. He can't remember starting. 

"I'm sorry," he says, just because he feels like he should, and tries to wipe his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt before anyone can accuse him of trying to steal too much pity.

Of course, his friends aren't having any of that. Cosette takes his hand (when did she get here? has she always been here?) and squeezes it.

"Do you want to go to your room?"

That sounds like a nice idea. His room is quieter, less filled with well-meaning but still-too-inquisitive people, and there's places to sit down, which he'd like, because anxiety is making his legs weak. So he tugs on Cosette's hand to lead her out of the dayroom.

"Yeah, I'll show you. Come on!"

Just as Enjolras had thought, being in his room is better. It's quieter and more private, even though he's not allowed to close the door, and people, both nurses and patients, keep coming by to look inside. 

"They've been doing that all day," he explains, when his friends express their surprise and indignation. "I guess it's fun to watch me or something. I don't know. I wouldn't want to."

"It's weird," says Grantaire decisively. "I mean, come on. You're a human being, not some museum display. They shouldn't do that. Although," here he lifts Enjolras's hand to his lips and kisses it gently, "I must say, you're the prettiest thing in this whole world, so I understand the appeal."

"And they do seem to like you," adds Combeferre while Enjolras is blushing and fluttering to himself, maybe as an attempt to make the situation less overtly PDA. Enjolras nods.

"They're nice. I started helping them, you know."

"You started helping them?"

Enjolras tells his friends about his day, describing his interactions with Janice and the others, and the way he'd taken over the OT group. The others laugh and hug him, delighted.

"Even now, you're such a light in this world," says Cosette. 

Enjolras doesn't really agree with that, but it's nice to hear. He's starting to feel a little more human now.

"Do you want to sit?" he asks. Of course, this means that he's asking them to sit, and more specifically, to sit _with him_ , and because his friends are amazing people, they understand. 

Grantaire sits on the bed and gets Enjolras onto his lap, and Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Cosette arrange themselves around them, all connected in some way or another. It's so nice, so perfect, that Enjolras can't help himself- he starts to cry once again. It's not sad crying, not necessarily, though really he's not quite sure what it is, but it's emotional, and the others hasten to comfort him as best they can.

"Don't cry, precious," says Courfeyrac coaxingly, though he's making his whistling sound, and that detracts from the tone somewhat. He kisses Enjolras's cheek, right where the tears are streaking down. "Shh, it's okay. We're here. You're going to be fine. It's okay, honey, come on, stop crying, won't you?"

Enjolras sniffles. "I'm sorry. I can't."

"Oh dear, well, that's okay. But what's wrong? How can we help?"

"Stay here."

"We can do that."

"Are you in pain?" asks Grantaire. "They didn't do anything weird to you, right?" Enjolras shakes his head.

"It's okay."

"Do you actually know what goes on in hospitals, R?" Combeferre wants to know. "Like, you know we don't operate on people unless we have to, right?"

"Okay, sure, but I've seen enough telenovelas to know that there's some shady business in here sometimes. What if they thought he was smuggling drugs?"

"Have you seen him? I don't think they would think that."

"I saw an episode like that, though," says Cosette. "It was weird. They actually were smuggling drugs, but it was still very suspenseful."

Combeferre groans. "Modern media really fails to represent the medical establishment correctly."

"Just as it fails to represent everything else," agrees Grantaire, almost cheerfully. 

Courfeyrac interrupts what has the makings of a long-winded rant by petting Enjolras on the cheek like he's a cat that needs to be calmed (which isn't completely wrong, all things considered).

"Just to be clear. You're okay, right? It doesn't hurt anywhere?"

Enjolras nuzzles against his hand. He thinks he could bask in the contact forever. "No, I'm okay. Everyone's really nice to me here."

This makes him think of something, though, and he straightens up in Grantaire's arms. He can't be so soft and weepy when there's very real issues on the table. It's time to be professional.

"Listen," he says. "I feel like the American medical establishment is really doing badly when it comes to mental health."

Combeferre hums. "I don't disagree. But why do you say so?"

"There's such a disparity in how they treat me versus how they treat the others. Everyone's nice to me, and they make sure I have everything I need, and they're so concerned about my care, but with the others, they don't even treat them like adults. Mental illness doesn't negate self-determination, you know!"

"I know. What do you mean, though? Do you have an example?"

"Yeah. They talk to the other patients in that special voice, and they order them around like kids. It's all, _Janice, sit down and behave_ and _Edith, keep your hands to yourself_. I don't like it."

Grantaire looks at Combeferre, frowning. "Is this normal?"

"Not where I work. Everyone I know tries really hard to be respectful." Combeferre frowns now too, thoughtful. "Enjolras, I have to ask. Do the patients seem to mind this?"

"I don't know," Enjolras tells him. "It's hard to tell, you know? But they do seem to like having me help them more than the nurses."

"And the nurses are okay with that?"

"Yeah. They sat around and watched me do it."

Combeferre's face morphs into something concerned and upset, which would be good, except Enjolras has the sneaking feeling he's less worried about the large-scale necessity for change and more concerned with the well-being of Enjolras himself. 

"I think the only reason they put me in here is because I'm conventionally attractive," he says, needing to make him see that it's _not_ about him. "They wouldn't go to so much effort for someone who's less so, would they? They think they're being white knights. They want to save me."

"That doesn't sound implausible," Cosette agrees, and the others nod, even Combeferre. 

"It could have biased them somewhat. 5150s are rare– I've never seen anyone forcibly hospitalized, myself."

"It's silly," Enjolras says hotly. "I shouldn't be privileged above anyone else just by virtue of my appearance, which is something I can't even control. And I shouldn't be treated better than anyone else while I'm in here. I don't like this. I think I need to do something about it."

His friends know him well enough not to argue with this. In fact, they probably agree, too. Grantaire kisses him on the head, and Combeferre squeezes his hand, and Courfeyrac and Cosette lean in and drape themselves on him in a floppy yet oddly supportive hug. 

"We'll help you," says Cosette. The others make various sounds of agreement.

"Don't worry, Enjolras. We're behind you all the way."

"Really?"

Enjolras doesn't know what he's done to deserve his friends, he really doesn't. He has to be one of the luckiest men alive, because even in these depths of darkness, even when the whole world is going wrong, he has people who will love and support him no matter what. They've been with him through good and bad, and now they're willing to be with him in the fight, too. When they all nod and clasp his hands in reassurance, he feels the tightness in his chest start to loosen up for the first time in these past two days.

"Thank you."

"It's nothing you wouldn't do for us," says Combeferre. "Besides, it's important."

"But still. Thank you."

No one says anything after that, and Enjolras is afraid he's made them all feel awkward, so he's gearing up to apologize, when Courfeyrac bounces on the bed in irrepressible enthusiasm. 

"So! Have you stolen any medical supplies yet?"

Enjolras blinks at him. "No. People need them."

"Aw, fiddlesticks! No one's going to die if you take a surgical mask or two, right?"

"I mean…”

"Think about it. Think of the aesthetic. How often do you get to have access to real surgical masks?"

"Anytime," Enjolras says. "I can get Combeferre to take some for me."

Grantaire laughs at this, then looks at the others as a memory surfaces. "Do you guys remember when Bossuet was in his 'urban' phase and he would wear surgical masks everywhere? Did he get those from Joly?"

"I think he did," says Cosette. "I remember him asking me, 'Asian to Asian', if I thought it made him look too stereotypical."

Courfeyrac makes a wounded sound. "He didn't ask me."

"You're not Japanese."

"Neither are you!"

"But I've been to Harajuku. I've seen fashion in action."

"Would Bossuet have fit in?" asks Enjolras, curious despite his complete incompetence in everything sartorial. Cosette thinks about it.

"Hmm, maybe? But I don't know. He's a little too self-conscious. You need to be bold to pull off a face mask, you know?"

"I'm bold," says Courfeyrac huffily. "I'm fashionable. I'm Courf-conscious. I could pull off the mask."

"Are you kidding? You'd probably bedazzle it or something."

"Um, hell yeah I would. That's the best part."

"Gross."

"You're gross."

"I'll steal some masks for you," says Enjolras. "I want to see what you do with them."

Courfeyrac kisses him loudly, and raises his eyebrows at Cosette. "See, he's a real one. Not like you fake ones."

"Who ya calling fake? I thought I was your bro."

"No, just my homie. Marius is my bro."

Cosette gestures at all of them extravagantly. "Do y'all see this? What I have to put up with? I'm going to file for divorce."

"Sure," says Courfeyrac. "But I'm going to keep Enjolras."

Enjolras laughs, and it's soft and weak, but he does mean it. His friends bring so much cheer and vivacity wherever they go, Cosette and Courfeyrac who bicker like an old married couple because their love grants them levity, Combeferre with his quiet smiles, Grantaire with his smirks. They're the lights in this world, not him. 

"I love you," he says.

"Aww, you precious little pepperpod!" Courfeyrac grabs at him, not frighteningly, just sweetly, and since he doesn't shy away, Cosette joins in too, wrapping herself around as much of him as she can reach.

"You're so sweet," says Cosette. "And we love you, too. We all do."

For the nth time in as many hours, Enjolras bursts into tears. Even he's getting sick of himself at this point. Why does he cry so much? No one knows. He can't seem to help it, though, and fortunately, his friends comfort him as best they know how, and even though he's still dripping intermittently, he feels almost happy, almost safe. This visit is nothing short of a blessing.

Nothing but a blessing it may be, but sadly, it's all too short. Soon (it seems like it's only been minutes), one of the nurses comes and knocks on the open doorframe.

"Enjolras, honey, your time is up."

It sounds almost ominous. Enjolras looks up with the biggest, most appealing tear-filled eyes he can muster. 

"Just fifteen more minutes? Please?"

"I wish I could, but I've already given you fifteen minutes more than I should have. Come on, you can see your friends tomorrow."

There's nothing to be done. Enjolras slowly and unwillingly stands up. "Thank you," he says.

Grantaire seems reluctant to let go of him, which is nice, but it makes it all too tempting to sink back into his arms and settle in again. It's only with difficulty (and persistent eye contact with the nurse) that Enjolras can force himself to say goodbye.

"Thank you for coming," he says. "Thank you so much. I can't even express how much it means to me."

"You don't have to thank us, precious baby. We're your friends. This is what we do." Courfeyrac chucks him lightly under the chin. "Come on, give us a smile."

Enjolras couldn't really say if he smiles or not, but Courfeyrac seems to accept it, so he can't look too miserable. He hugs everyone as tightly as he can because it feels like he's never going to see them again, and walks them to the door where the nurse is waiting like some kind of guide out of the underworld. 

"Please come back," he says.

"We will. Just as soon as we can." Cosette holds out her pinky for a promise, which means serious business. She never takes pinky swears lightly. "Cross my heart and seal with a kiss– chu! That means you can't give up, okay?"

Enjolras nods. "Okay."

"You promised. So you have to come back to us!"

Promises are scary. Enjolras's parents always held them over his head like lines leading to eternal damnation if he didn't follow them to the letter of the law. But this, right here, it's a reassurance. Enjolras finds that he doesn't feel any anxiety at all.

"I'll come back to you," he says. "I promise."

At this point, Grantaire reaches for him and sweeps him up into a big, dramatic kiss that lasts for at least ten seconds. It would be longer (certainly, Enjolras is willing) but inconveniently, they both need to breathe. All the nurses are steadfastly looking away when they separate, and Combeferre is blushing.

"Uh, great, good job," he says. Sometimes, he's almost as awkward as Enjolras is. Courfeyrac wiggles his eyebrows.

"Yeah, boy!"

Grantaire doesn't pay attention to either of them. He's holding Enjolras around the waist with one hand, and cupping his face with the other, caressing the edge of his cheekbone like he's polishing marble.

"I'm going to miss you," he says. "Even if I see you tomorrow, which I will, one way or another, that still feels way too long."

Enjolras closes his eyes. The edges of his lashes brush Grantaire's thumb. "Please think of me."

"I will. I promise, I will. I couldn't do anything else."

"Thank you. I'll be strong, but please come back. Please."

Grantaire kisses him once again. It's gentle this time, almost unbearably sweet and slow, just a soft little sugary press of lips, and then they're both pulling away. Enjolras is almost too overwhelmed to open his eyes, but he does, only because he wants to see Grantaire's face, and even though he can see it behind his eyelids, that's nothing compared to the real thing. So he drags his eyes open and looks up.

"I love you."

"Sweetheart, I– fuck. I love you too. I…”

Grantaire turns away. His shoulders are shaking. Cosette puts an arm around him and leads him away, talking quietly. Courfeyrac and Combeferre take his place, grabbing hold of Enjolras's hands.

"It's okay," says Courfeyrac. "He's just emotional because he loves you and he's worried about you."

This isn't exactly reassuring. Enjolras doesn't want Grantaire to be upset for any reason, even if a little part of him is sneakingly happy to be this loved. 

"I don't want him to be sad," he says. "I don't want anyone to be sad. What can I do?"

"What can you /do/?"

"I want to help."

Unfortunately, this only does the opposite. Combeferre and Courfeyrac look like they've been kicked in the face. Combeferre reaches out with his spare hand, maybe to touch Enjolras's face, but he brings it back down again weakly as if it doesn't even belong to him. 

"Enjo..."

"You don't have to do anything," breaks in Courfeyrac, all in a rush. "Please don't worry, pumpkin. You don't have to look after everyone. Just focus on yourself for a change."

Enjolras is confused. He tips his head to one side. "But I always focus on myself. I'm selfish."

"How the fuck are you selfish?"

"I can't seem to function most of the time. And I'm always worried about bad things happening. And once, I told Marius I didn't care about his relationship problems– oh dear. I'm sorry, Courfeyrac."

"Why are you sorry? Don't be sorry."

"Those things don't sound particularly selfish," says Combeferre. "Think about it. You're _sick_. Would you think Cosette was selfish if she was having a bad pain day and needed to stay home?"

"Of course not."

"Or what if Grantaire needed a mental health day. Would that be selfish?"

"No, but-"

"But it's you, right?"

It sounds silly. But it's true. Enjolras bows his head. "Yeah."

"Poor thing." Now Combeferre does touch Enjolras's face, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, then moving down to hold his chin. "It's okay, love. I know it's hard to feel like you're so distanced from everyone else, and I'm sorry. I wish you didn't feel that way."

"I'm sorry…”

"No, I'm not blaming you. This is sympathy, honey."

Enjolras darts in to hug him around the waist. He doesn't really know how to reply, because he's tempted to say something derogatory about himself, and that's not good, but he's grateful nonetheless. Combeferre is so _solid_. He's real in a way that many other things aren't, or don't seem to be, especially in here. Enjolras has never been as much a one for classical allusions as Grantaire, but right now, he feels like Eurydice, temporarily pulled from the land of the dead by a warm, loving human hand. 

Like Eurydice, though, his respite is only temporary. He can only have so much hope before he has to go back to his room and give up feeling alive once again. So he holds on as long as he can, but all too soon, there's a nurse behind him, clearing his throat.

"Sorry, but we really need to break this up. It's past 8:30. Your friends can visit tomorrow."

Enjolras pulls away at last, knowing he can't stall any longer. "Okay," he says. "Thank you so much. I can't even tell you… no. Just, thank you."

"We'll be back tomorrow." Combeferre's voice is gentle, but there's an edge to it that says he won't hesitate to march right into the depths of hell itself for the chance to see Enjolras again. It makes Enjolras want to hug him, but he can't, not now, so he blows a kiss instead.

"I love you. I'll be waiting!"

"I love you, too," say Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Cosette, and Grantaire all at the same time. They look at each other and laugh.

"Jinx, you owe me a soda."

The nurse doesn't seem amused. He starts waving them all out the door without a word. They go, but not before turning back to Enjolras and blowing kisses back at him.

"We love you, sweetheart! Stay strong!"

"I'm already thinking of you," adds Grantaire, and at that, Enjolras can barely find the strength to stand upright anymore. He waves mutely, throat choked-off, and eyes blurred. 

It's only when the nurse has taken his friends around the corner, down the hall to the elevators, that he allows himself to sink down at the table and bury his head in his arms, feeling lonelier and more defeated than ever. Yes, it had helped so much to see his friends, and truth to be told, they'd probably come close to saving his life for a few more hours, but now that they're gone, he feels so _empty_ , like everything good has fizzled out of his life, and he'll never even be close to it again. Being left alone hurts, even if it's not on purpose. The overwhelming despair almost makes him want to go back on his promise to Cosette already. 

He doesn't, though, and although it's a struggle just to move, he takes himself back to his room and sits down on the bed. He needs to shower, and maybe look at his lecture notes, if the nurse will unlock the cupboard and let him get them out of his school bag, but it's so hard to do anything. His whole body aches almost physically, like the pain in his chest is eating him up from the inside out. So he sits for awhile longer, staring blankly into space and wishing for something he can't identify, until one of the nurses comes by to check on him, and he asks for a clean towel. 

"I know you're busy," he says apologetically. "I just want to shower, so it's no rush."

Then nurse grins at him. "No, it's no problem! That's an easy thing to do for you. I'll be right back."

True to his word, he's back within a few minutes, carrying several clean towels and washcloths of various sizes. He sets them on the bed next to Enjolras, still smiling. 

"Anything else I can do?"

Enjolras feels guilty for no reason at all. He supposes it's something to do with making people go to any amount of effort for him. "No, it's okay. Thank you so much!"

The nurse pats him on the arm and leaves, kicking the half-closed door open on the way out. Clearly, there won't be any privacy tonight, either. 

\--

After showering and drying off and changing into hospital pajamas, there's not much else to do. Enjolras tries to go back to his notes from before, and gets through a few more pages, but after awhile, he's too drained and miserable to write anymore. He just sits, trying to pretend that he's anywhere but here, until the nurse comes in to give him his medication and take his nighttime vitals. By now, he's so exhausted with being awake that he asks for a sleeping pill, consequences be damned. If he gets bad dreams and can't wake up from them, well, it's not that much worse than being stuck in stasis here, right? He swallows down the pills the nurse gives him, wishing he never had to wake from tonight's sleep again.

Well, maybe he won't. Maybe a miracle will happen and he'll die tonight, not through any act of his own, so his friends won't have to be sad. That would really take care of everything, wouldn't it? Cheered by this and this alone, Enjolras crawls into bed and buries his face in the blankets, waiting for sleep– and hopefully, death– to claim him.

Hospital, day 1: over. One less day to be alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://synchronysymphony.tumblr.com)


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this was originally part of ch 13 but it was really bad so I decided to Separate them so people could Ignore it (but I'm still posting it bc I'm my own biggest fan)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a bad soap opera chapter ,, do not the Read if you want to have good taste intact  
> tw: cheating (but not actually), bad dream involving drowning, suicidal thoughts

It's another two days before Enjolras gets out of the hospital. His team treats him kindly, and they seem to believe that he's capable of making it on his own, but somehow, the discharge papers don't materialize until he's well and truly given up hope. Then, as if that's what the administration had been waiting for, the word comes from up above, and Émilie hands him a recovery plan and tells him to fill it out.

"We'll need to check it briefly, but I trust you. You should be out of here by the end of today."

This seems to good to be true, because by now, Enjolras has ceased to believe in anything but the expectation of misery, but he dutifully takes the plan and writes down his most convincing health contingency plans, all the while thinking of the best ways to die. 

Stella comes back later and picks it up, leafing through it oh-so-briefly, then nods. "Great, you're good to go. I'll start filling out the paperwork for you. You're going home, honey."

Enjolras can't even pretend to feel anything. He smiles woodenly. "Thank you."

"It's our job. But promise me something, will you?"

Promises are manipulative. Enjolras doesn't want to agree, but he can't disagree, either, so he just looks up, trying to appear interested. Fortunately, it works. Stella goes on.

"You'll follow this plan, right? If things get bad. I don't want you to have to end up here again– not that it wasn't nice to work with you, but I'd rather have you comfortable."

Enjolras doesn't want to promise. He can't. He doesn't know if he'll follow the plan (in fact, he probably won't), but breaking a promise is against the rules, and he'll have to pay for that somehow. It's not Stella's fault for putting him in this position, because she doesn't know the extent of his system, but he still has to bite down an edge of annoyance.

"I'll keep the plan," he says. 

He will. He'll keep it in his room. It'll probably end up wedged under a stack of old papers, never to be looked at again, but… it'll be there.

Stella, not knowing this, looks happy. "That's wonderful. I'm glad, sweetie. I just want you to be safe."

"I'll do my best."

Discharge happens fairly quickly after that. Enjolras signs his paperwork, collects his belongings from the now-unlocked cupboard (spitefully making sure to steal all the hospital supplies he sees as soon as the nurse's back is turned), and allows himself to be helped into a wheelchair to go downstairs. The two nurses wheeling him down seem intent on making conversation, though fortunately, they end up talking to each other a lot. 

"We're going to get your valuables," says the first one. The one pushing Enjolras's wheelchair abruptly changes directions.

"I totally knew that, Karen."

"Sure you did."

Enjolras stares at his phone. He has so many notifications from the few days he's been isolated in here. So many people wanting to get ahold of him, not knowing where he is, thinking he's blowing them off because he's a bad, hateful person… yeah, wouldn't it be better just to die now? That would solve all his problems.

The nurses, oblivious to his depressing inner monologue, get his valuables back and hand them over, painstakingly checking each one down on a triplicate sheet. They're very thorough. Enjolras supposes it's to avoid being sued for misplaced items.

Fortunately, nothing is misplaced, so after taking the five papers with Enjolras's signature on them, the nurses smile and wave him on his way. "It was nice meeting you. Have a good rest of your day!"

Enjolras gets out of the wheelchair, feeling strangely awkward. He points at the door. "So, that's it? I just leave?"

"Yup. You got a ride?"

"I can walk. I live close. But, really? That's all?"

"That's all."

It's weird. Enjolras has gone from top-level scrutiny to the most casual of send-offs in a matter of fifteen minutes. It feels almost anticlimactic, really, like they should be doing something more dramatic to help him on his way. Still, he's glad to be out of here (or at least he thinks he is; it's hard to feel anything right now), so he smiles and thanks the nurses and picks up his bag to walk right out the front door.

It takes about twenty minutes to walk back to the apartment, which is plenty of time to think about death, and the best means to achieve it. Really, it's a very absorbing topic. By the time he gets to his front door, Enjolras has narrowed his plans down to a select top three. He opens the door (unlocked as usual), thinking about the best way to sign his goodbye note, and steps inside.

And then, still hovering on the threshold, he stops dead-still. It takes him a second to process what he's seeing, but when he does, it's as if all the air leaves the room at once. That's Combeferre and Grantaire on the couch, and that’s– they're _kissing_. He squeaks, unable to formulate words, unable to do anything but stare in utter shock, because in a million years, he never would have dreamed this scenario, never would have…

There's an insistent pounding in his ears, but it can't be his heartbeat, because as far as he can tell, his heart has stopped completely. He tries to breathe, but something's in the way, and he's choking on nothing, and now the room is bending around him and the floor is getting closer and closer, and nothing's staying in place like it should, and _what is this, how is any of this real_ – and then his eyes are closing by themselves and everything goes dark.

\--

_They're dancing. Enjolras can't tell where they are, a bar, maybe, or a club, but it doesn't matter, because he's safe and content in Grantaire's arms, twirling around the room to the beat of the music and the glowing, pulsing lights. He looks up at Grantaire, wanting to express how happy he is, but Grantaire is frowning, glaring down at him instead._

_"You're contaminated," he says._

_Enjolras doesn't understand. This doesn't make any sense. "What do you mean?"_

_"You're contaminated. You're sick, and you're disgusting, and now you've even been to the hospital again. You're not good enough for me anymore– if you ever were."_

_He snaps his fingers, and the scene changes. Now, instead of pulsing music and lights, they're surrounded by darkness, hovering alone above a deep, black, bottomless pool of water. Enjolras clings to Grantaire as tightly as he can, knowing that if he falls into the pool, he'll be lost forever._

_"Don't let me go," he begs._

_"I'm sorry. You're not good enough."_

_"I'll be better, I can try–”_

_"No. Nothing you ever do will work. You're too contaminated."_

_Enjolras starts to cry, pleading for his life, for help, for someone to save him, but Grantaire's face is stony, and he's pushing Enjolras closer and closer to the edge of the water. He can't be dissuaded; Enjolras is contaminated, and he's not good enough, and he can't be here anymore._

_Just as Grantaire is about to push him in, though, Enjolras looks up, and suddenly, Combeferre is on the other side, reaching out his hand and smiling._

_"I'll take him," he says._

_Enjolras stretches out his arms. He knows Combeferre will save him. He's going to keep him safe, take care of him–_

_Combeferre looks into his eyes, so kind and gentle. "You're contaminated," he says sweetly._

_"No–”_

_Combeferre pushes him. He reaches up, trying desperately to save himself, but it's too late now, and he's sinking, down, deep down, and he'll never come back, never return, and God, he wanted to die, but not like this. He pushes up against the water, trying to slow his descent. He can't; it's inexorable, and now water is filling his lungs, and he's gone, it's the end, and he's screaming, but no one's ever going to hear, never again._

\--

"Enjolras! Enjolras, wake up!"

Enjolras gasps, pulling himself out of the black. He can't believe he's real, let alone alive. It still feels like there's darkness and water clinging to his skin.

"Where am I?" 

"You're at home. This is your room. Can you open your eyes?"

He can't. He doesn't want to. He can't bear to see Grantaire and Combeferre sneering at him again, looking at him with those cold, loveless expressions. 

"No," he whispers. "I can't. They hate me."

"They're not here, I promise. It's just me."

"Who-?"

"Me, Courfeyrac."

"Courfeyrac?"

"Yeah."

Enjolras opens his eyes. Sure enough, he's lying in his bed, propped up by pillows. Courfeyrac is hovering above him, forehead creased in concern. 

"Hi, sweetie," he says. His voice is worried. "It's just me, see?"

"How did you…”

"Combeferre and Grantaire called me. They said you fainted, and you would need me when you woke up. They didn't say why they couldn't be with you, but… hey, hey. Are you okay? What's wrong?"

Enjolras tries not to choke on his tears. "Courfeyrac," he says, but that's all he can manage. Courfeyrac frowns deeply.

"Hey, okay. It's okay. Can I touch you?"

Enjolras can't say anything. He just nods. Courfeyrac scoots up close to him and wraps his arms around him, pulling his head against his chest.

"It's okay," he says again.

Enjolras shakes his head. It's not okay. It's never going to be okay. "I'm going to die," he says.

"No, you're not. I'm going to take care of you."

No, Courfeyrac doesn't understand. Enjolras shakes his head again. "I'm going to _die_."

"Oh, sweetheart. What happened? What's wrong?"

"Ferre. Grantaire. They, I saw them…”

Enjolras can't go on, can't say anything else. It's too much. He pulls insistently on Courfeyrac's shirt, because he needs him to _know_. "Please."

Even without looking, Enjolras can tell that Courfeyrac's frowning. His posture's gone all stiff, in that way it does when he's really upset.

"Hey, guys," he calls. His voice is harsher than Enjolras has heard in a long time. "Get in here. Now."

Combeferre and Grantaire come cringing into the room. As soon as they see Enjolras, their faces twist, into slightly different tableaux of shame and guilt. Grantaire makes a half-aborted movement towards the bed, but Courfeyrac cuts him off with a raised hand. 

"Don't you take another step. What the hell did you two do to him?"

"It isn't what you think–”

"Right. Because it never is. Let me ask again. What. Did. You. Do."

Grantaire and Combeferre look at each other, then back at Courfeyrac. They can't seem to make eye contact with Enjolras, which is just as well, because Enjolras doesn't know how he would manage that. He still can't stop seeing their dream faces in his mind.

"He saw us, ah…” Combeferre stops, sighs. "It wasn’t–”

"I kissed him," Grantaire breaks in, all in a rush. 

"What?" Courfeyrac squeezes Enjolras against him, almost too tightly. He's trembling, or at least Enjolras thinks he is, although that could just be his own shaking. "Grantaire. Are you cheating on Enjolras? With _Combeferre_?"

"No!" Now Grantaire does come over to the bed, and kneels down in front of Enjolras. His very posture is pleading. "Please, please believe me. I love you,  Enjolras. I would never– I could never–”

"Then, what. You just thought it would be fun to feather your nest while he was in the hospital?" Courfeyrac lets Enjolras go, and jabs a finger into Grantaire's shoulder. "Thought you'd warm your bed while he was away, huh? Not like he's suffering enough already? Selfish bastard."

"It's not like that.”

"And you." Courfeyrac gets up and crosses the room in two long strides. He grabs Combeferre by the front of his shirt. "Don't try to play innocent. You're just as complicit in all this. I never thought you'd stoop so low as to steal your best friend's boyfriend. You always talk so nice, but in the end, you're just a self-serving asshole, aren't you? I can't believe you."

"Courfeyrac." Enjolras's voice cracks audibly. He looks down and tries again, softer. "Courfeyrac, let them explain."

"Oh, angel.”

"Please."

Courfeyrac steps away from Combeferre. His face is still murderous, but he's turned down the fire for now, carefully controlling it in clenched teeth and balled-up fists. "All right," he says. "You heard him. Spit it out."

"It was my fault," says Combeferre immediately. "Enjolras, I'm so sorry. I was explaining how I've never kissed anyone, and I…”

"I offered," Grantaire cuts in. He sounds like he's swallowed gravel. "I swear to you, Enjolras, it was out of friendship, nothing else. I wanted to help somebody, and I thought this would be a way to do it. I would never cheat on you. Please believe me. I love you, and the last thing I want is to hurt you in any way."

Enjolras doesn't know what to say. Grantaire is staring into his eyes now, and he looks so earnest and devoted, and Enjolras _wants_ to believe him, but this is so much to handle. He tries to breathe.

"You love me?"

"Angel, I love you more than anything in this world. I'm so sorry that I made you doubt that. I'm not asking for forgiveness, because I know I don’t deserve that, but please, _please_ believe me."

"You're dumb as fuck, then," snaps Courfeyrac. "Why would you do this now? You couldn't wait a few days to ask Enjolras if it was okay to make out with his best friend? I'm sorry, but this all seems too suspicious to me."

"It was my fault." Combeferre comes over to the bed, hesitant, and with his arms stretched out in front of him. "Enjolras, I'm not asking for forgiveness either. It wasn't right for us to do this without asking you. I was just so worried about you, and so upset about everything–”

"Nope." Courfeyrac swoops in and pulls Combeferre back. His face is dark with rage. Combeferre blinks.

"What did I say?"

"You can't blame this on him," Courfeyrac growls. " _Ooh Enjolras, I was so worried about you! You made me upset, so I really had no choice but to go behind your back and kiss your boyfriend!_ Do you know what you fucking sound like right now?"

"It _is_ because of me."

Everyone stops moving at once. They all turn and stare at Enjolras, maybe to check and see if he was the one who'd spoken. Enjolras doesn't know why they're so surprised; he's just telling the truth.

"It's my fault," he says, with more assurance now. "Grantaire and Combeferre told me in my dream. I'm contaminated. I've never been good enough, but now I'm _really_ not. So it's my own fault if they don't love me."

No one says a word. They're all just staring. Enjolras pushes past the tears, determined to get his words out, because if he stops now, he'll never have the courage to finish. 

"I understand. I'm not good enough, and that's okay. And it's better that you don't love me, because when I'm gone, you won't miss me so much. You're the same age, and you're both so smart and good, and I know you'll be happy without me, so after this, don't feel guilty if you want to be together. I…” he stops for a second, trying to push away the tears long enough to finish. "I love you both. Please be happy when I'm gone. And if you forget me, I understand. Thank you for being with me, and for making the world so good. I won’t– I won't be in the way anymore. That's all."

With this, he climbs off the bed, and goes to the door. That's all he needs to say. It's convenient, actually, because now he doesn't need a goodbye note. He pushes open the door and steps out into the hall before finally letting the tears start to flow. 

He's barely taken a step, though, before Courfeyrac comes surging up and wraps his arms around him. "Stop," he says. "Come back here and sit down. You're not about to do something stupid, are you?"

Enjolras shakes his head. This isn't stupid. "I'm going to die."

Courfeyrac goes still. "No you're not," he says in a carefully controlled voice. "Honey, come here and sit down."

He doesn't give Enjolras a choice in the matter; he practically carries him back into the room and sets him down on the bed. Then, he gets behind him and wraps his arms and legs around him like an octopus, as if he's afraid that he might get away if left unattended.

"All right," he says. "We're going to talk about this, okay? Are you going to kill yourself because Grantaire cheated on you?"

"He didn't," Enjolras says, ignoring Courfeyrac's squawk of _you believe him?_ because of course he does; that's not even in doubt. "And no, that's not why. I was planning it in the hospital. I just feel better about it now."

Grantaire is still kneeling on the bed, but now he gets closer, still hesitant, but drawn as if he can't stay away. "Enjolras. Please don't hurt yourself. You're wrong, you know? We love you. And we _would_ miss you if you were gone, I swear we would. You're so precious, and you would leave a hole in our lives that we would never be able to fill. Please, please don't hurt yourself because of what we did."

Enjolras leans towards him, just a little bit. "It's not because of that. I believe you, and it's okay. I just. It _is_ easier now that I know you won't miss me."

Enjolras thinks he sounds manipulative, and that he has throughout this whole conversation. He almost sounds like his parents– _I know you don't love me! You wouldn't even cry if I died!_ – but it's a little different. His parents say these things for a calculated effect. They want him to fall over himself and do their bidding because he feels too guilty not to after their emotional guilt-tripping. But now, for himself, he doesn't want that. He doesn't have any ulterior motive. He _knows_ his friends don't love him, and yes, it hurts, but he's not trying to change their minds. Everything he's saying is true, no matter how bad it sounds when it comes out of his mouth.

"I'm not trying to be manipulative," he says.

The others don't reply to this, though they're all sniffling now. Instead, Grantaire reaches for Enjolras's hand and grips it in both his own. 

"How can I show you how much I love you?"

"It's okay. You don't have to."

"Because– because you believe me?"

"No, because it's okay that you don't."

"No." Grantaire sounds absolutely heartbroken. Enjolras isn't sure why. Shouldn't this be a freeing thing to hear?

"Please don't feel guilty," he says. 

"Let me make it up to you. Please. Just tell me what to do, and I'll do it. I'll do _anything_ , I promise–”

"You've done enough, I think," Courfeyrac tells him acidly. "Why don't you stop worrying about your relationship status, and start thinking about the fact that Enjolras is about to go out and kill himself? That's a little more important, isn't it?"

Grantaire wilts. "I'm sorry."

"And I'm so sorry, too," says Combeferre. "Enjolras, none of this would have happened if I hadn't been so stupid and jealous of everyone who's in love. You're more important than my insecurity, and I shouldn't have put myself first."

"No, you're important. You _should_ put yourself first."

"Not to this extent. I mean, I kissed your boyfriend while you were in the hospital. That's really shitty."

Courfeyrac snorts. "Chyeah, ya think?"

"But I don't blame you," Enjolras says. "I mean, it was really a shock to see, and I do wish you'd asked me first, but I understand, and I'm not upset. Or at least, I'm not upset with you."

"You're not? How are you not?"

"Because I know. It's hard for you, ‘Ferre, and Grantaire wanted to help, because he's such a good person. You're both good people. I know you wouldn't want to hurt anyone on purpose, even someone like me. So please don't worry, and don't be upset. I understand."

Courfeyrac huffs a disbelieving laugh. "You guys don't deserve him."

"I know." Grantaire brings Enjolras's hand to his lips, not quite kissing it, but touching it to his lips as a promise. "I swear, angel, I could spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of you, and I never would be. Even now, even when you have every right to throw my faults in my face, you're still validating me and trying to make me feel better. You're too good for me. I've always known that."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it? I'm the worst. And you, you're so amazing. We're just not on the same level."

"Now's not the time for that," says Combeferre unexpectedly, hoarse and quiet. "Grantaire, this is not about us. I know you might feel insecure, but put that aside for a second, will you? It's not Enjolras's job to comfort us right now."

"Oh no, I don't mind”–

"Hush, baby." Courfeyrac puts a soft finger over Enjolras's lips. "Combeferre is right. We're worried about _you_ right now. It's okay, you know? Just let us put you first."

"I'm sorry."

"What? Why are you sorry? You're the one person who has nothing to be sorry for. What's wrong?"

Enjolras closes his eyes. He can't seem to keep them open anymore, because maintaining eye contact is hard, and knowing where to look is hard, and even focusing his visual senses is hard. It doesn't help much, because once he shuts his eyes, he's greeted with a parade of painful images strutting past his eyelids, but at least he knows they're fake, so they're easier to discount than his friends' confusing sympathy. 

"I'm contaminated," he says. 

Grantaire squeezes his hand. "Did we tell you that in your dream?"

"Mhm. I'm not good enough, and I'm contaminated. So I had to go."

"Go? Go where?"

"Into the water. You pushed me."

"We– pushed you? Wait. Did you have a dream about us killing you?"

Belatedly, Enjolras realizes how rude that sounds. He takes his hand away. "I'm sorry."

"No, you don't have to be sorry. I'm just worried about you. That sounds horrible."

"It was. I know you wouldn't do that, but in my dream you did, so it was worse than the usual nightmares."

Courfeyrac starts kissing Enjolras's head, on the crown, on the temples, everywhere he can reach. He doesn't say anything, but then maybe he can’t. He seems to be trembling pretty badly. Enjolras purrs, loving the attention, until he remembers that he shouldn't be allowed comfort like this, and he slumps down, despairing once again.

"I'm bad."

"Why are you bad?"

"I just, I am. I'm not good enough. Nothing I do will make me good enough. I try so hard, but I'm just shit."

"You're not. You're _not_." Grantaire is creeping forward again, judging by the sound of his voice. "Sweetheart, you're one of the best people I've ever met. You're an angel. I mean it. I don't think there's anyone like you in this whole world. You're always good, okay? No matter what."

"I'm not. I have to die."

"No, you don't. You can't. Please stay with us, okay?"

"I want to. But I can't."

"Why not?"

"It's selfish."

Combeferre seems to be coming over to the bed, too. His footsteps get close, and then a weight sinks down on the mattress, right next to Enjolras (though not close enough to touch him).

"Why is it selfish? You don't think it's selfish for anyone else to be alive, right?"

"God, of course not. It's just me. I'm such a burden on the world, and I'm bad, so it would be selfish for me to stay alive at the expense of everyone else. You know?"

"No. That doesn't make sense."

"Think about it this way," says Courfeyrac. "Even if it's not for yourself, think about all the good you've done in this world, and that you will continue to do if you stay alive. You've touched so many lives. But you couldn't do that if you were gone, could you?"

"But isn't anything I do negated by my presence in the world? Yeah, I might help people, but I think I would help them more if I was dead."

"That's not true. The world doesn't need dead bodies; it needs people who care, and who want to make a difference. That's _you_ , Enjolras. You can do so much, so please don't give up!"

It's an interesting argument, but it seems too good to be true. Enjolras can't allow himself to believe it. He doesn't open his eyes.

"I know it might be sad for awhile. But it would be better for you in the long run. You could have better lives, you know? You'd be free– you wouldn't be tied down to a kid who's seven years younger than you and really fucking high-maintenance to boot. You wouldn't have to be babysitters anymore. Wouldn't that be nice?"

"No," says Grantaire emphatically. "I'm not your babysitter, anyway. I mean, what kind of weird relationship would that be? I'm your boyfriend, I love taking care of you, just like you take care of me."

"And we're not your babysitters, either," adds Courfeyrac. "It's kinda like Grantaire said. We're best friends. Obviously we love and care for you, and want to support you as much as you can. But it's reciprocal. We know you have our back, too."

"Do I really, though?"

"You do."

"Enjolras, listen," says Combeferre. "I can talk to you about anything. I mean, before today, you were the only one who knew about my lack of romantic experience. And you're the only one who will go to lectures with me, and listen to me ramble about particle physics, and try to learn programming with me, even though you don't know anything about computers. And yes, I drive you to your doctor appointments, and calm you down when you're having panic attacks. But the only reason that you don't do that for me too is that you're sick, and I'm not. I'm positive that if I had a serious problem, you'd be behind me all the way."

Enjolras struggles to speak. His throat is totally closed off, so for awhile, all he can do is make weird coughing noises. But finally, he manages to swallow something down long enough to get a few words out. 

"You don't resent it?"

"Fuck, no. I wish I could do more, in fact."

"But I'm contaminated. You said."

"Enjo… um, okay. That was your dream, all right? It doesn't reflect reality. We don't think you're contaminated, I swear."

Enjolras finally opens his eyes. He leans back to look at Courfeyrac. "You don't think I'm contaminated?"

Courfeyrac looks like he's going to cry. Enjolras isn't sure if he's looked like that all along, or if this is a new development, but either way, he feels guilty. Courfeyrac wouldn't be upset if he didn't have to deal with an annoying little Enjolras in his life, that's for sure. 

So Enjolras pats him delicately on the cheek, doing his best to be reassuring. He knows he's not that comforting, because really, he's not good at anything, but he puts all his heart into it, because he doesn't want Courfeyrac to be sad.

"It's okay," he says. "Don't worry, I shouldn't have asked that. Just relax. It's okay."

"I can't relax.”

"Enjolras." Grantaire reaches for his hand again, closing on it when he doesn't move away. "Angel, sweet darling, is it okay if I hold you?"

"You want to?"

“I– yeah. Yeah, I do."

Enjolras reaches out his arms, feeling a little bit like a child asking for attention. But it works, because Grantaire meets him halfway and turns him around to settle him in his lap, holding him around the middle and kissing the back of his head. 

"Is this okay?"

"Mhm." Enjolras turns his head to nuzzle against the warm roughness of Grantaire's sweater. It smells like him, laundry detergent and acrylic paint and a whiff of smoke. "I love you," he mumbles. 

"You do? Still?"

"Of course." 

Grantaire starts to comb through his hair with shaking fingers, sorting out the messy curls. His touch is even gentler than usual, almost hesitant, like he's not sure he's allowed to do this. 

"I love you," he says. "I love you so, so much. You're my heart, my sun and stars, everything good in this world wrapped up into one beautiful, precious little human. Oh, dear heart, I just– words can't explain how much I adore you. I want to stay by your side always."

"But, but Grantaire. I'm bad."

"You're not. But even if you were, I'm bad, too. So it would work out."

It isn't right for Enjolras to be so affected by this. He shouldn't allow himself the luxury of love, or affection, or even absolution for all his as-of-yet-unenumerated sins. He can't cry, can't let his heart beat faster, can't fall even deeper into love. It's not allowed. He can't.

He is.

"I'm sorry," he says. "You make me so happy, and I love you so much, so I'm sorry. I wish I was better. I don't want to drag you down."

"You don't, though. You pull me up, in fact."

Enjolras doesn't really know what to say to this, because he can't just keep repeating himself over and over again. It's not helpful, or even convincing. He doesn't have to formulate a better answer, though, because there's a knock on the half-open door, and Cosette's dad sticks his head in.

"Hello, boys, here I am."

"Thanks for coming so quickly," says Courfeyrac, whom Enjolras gathers is behind this whole operation. "I hope we didn't disturb you, but it's kind of important."

Enjolras straightens up so he can look Mr. Fauchelevent completely in the eye. It only seems polite. He's standing as tall and serene as always, but he looks sort of distressed, even ruffled, like he ran out of the house without combing his hair. 

"Hi, Enjolras," he says. "I hear you just got out from the hospital."

"Courfeyrac told you?"

"Yes. Is that all right?"

"Yeah, it's okay. But don't worry! I'm fine."

"Is that so?" Mr. Fauchelevent sits down on the edge of the bed. Now there's four people on it, all packed in like cuddly sardines. "My dear, it's all right to feel bad sometimes. There's no shame in that."

Enjolras looks down. "I feel bad all the time."

"Ah. Well, there's no shame in that, either. It's just a bit worrying."

"Why?"

"Because we care about you. Obviously, we want you to be happy, and to feel safe and comfortable."

"Oh. Well, sorry."

"That wasn't meant as a criticism," says Mr. Fauchelevent. "Is it hard for you to believe that people accept you for who you are, and want nothing but the best for you?"

He doesn't sound judgmental, just curious, so Enjolras dips his head. "Yeah. I'm bad."

"He's been saying that this whole time," explains Courfeyrac. "I think he had a bad dream, and it triggered him. Although to be fair, he says it plenty at other times, too."

"Because it's true."

"It's _not_."

"I know where you're coming from, Enjolras," Mr. Fauchelevent says. "I, too, believe that I'm a bad person, and I have a hard time imagining that people care about me. It's very difficult."

Enjolras comes a little closer. "You're not bad. Do you know that?"

Mr. Fauchelevent chuckles. Even his quietest laugh is warm. Enjolras wants to sit on him and absorb all the kindness he emits, but he knows that would be weird. It's one thing to climb on his friends; it's quite another to bother fully-grown adults in this way. He's not a kid, after all, no matter how childish he might act sometimes. 

"I see why Cosette likes you so much," says Mr. Fauchelevent now. "You're really sweet. In the vernacular, I would say that you're _cute_."

Courfeyrac laughs. "Nice."

Enjolras would be tempted to laugh too, because the word 'cute' sounds funny coming out of Mr. Fauchelevent's mouth, but he's too absorbed by the sentiment involved. What's this supposed to mean, anyway? He's just trying to express an opinion.

"I meant it," he says. "Why is that cute?"

"I think it's you, rather than anything you said." Mr. Fauchelevent smiles at him kindly, but immediately stops when he doesn't smile back. "Ah, I'm sorry. I'm not trying to infantilise you. I know you're an adult, and believe me, I do respect you as such. You're just adorable, too."

"I didn't take it in a bad way," Enjolras tells him, because he really hadn't. "But I'm not that cute, you know? I'm just a weird, awkward guy."

Mr. Fauchelevent clicks his tongue. "For what it's worth, I don't think you're either weird or awkward."

"That's just you being nice, then."

"What about what you were talking about a second ago?" Courfeyrac wants to know. "Jean, weren't you telling him that he's not bad? I think that's important."

"Ah, yes. Very much so. Thank you, Courfeyrac."

"O'course."

"Enjolras," says Mr. Fauchelevent. "It's just like Courfeyrac said. You're not bad. I know it's hard to believe it, and it can be really hard to see anything good about ourselves, especially during dark times. But that doesn't mean it's not there. Your mind can play tricks on you sometimes, you know."

"Okay, yeah, but I'm not like you. You're _actually_ good. I'm not. I should die."

"But what differentiates me from you?"

It should be an obvious question, but it's somehow hard to come up with an answer. Enjolras isn't sure if that's because there isn't a good one or because he's too stupid to think of it, but he doesn't know what to say, so he tries to fudge.

"You know, lots of people don't like me. I think I'm toxic."

"How? And also, why?"

"Because, you know. I must be."

"You keep talking in absolutes," says Mr. Fauchelevent. " _I must be_ , or _I have to_. Is this because of your rules? A, therefore B. Is that right?"

Enjolras looks at him, stunned. "How did you know about my rules?"

"Cosette told me. But even if she hadn't, I can see it, because my mind works in the same way."

"Really?"

Enjolras doesn't think he'll ever get over the surprise of learning these things. It's strange to think that Mr. Fauchelevent, a highly successful, highly competent adult, is struggling with the same things that he is. Somehow it seems wrong, like the universe messed up in assigning problems to people. Enjolras doesn't want anyone to feel like he does; he wishes it were possible to absorb all the bad things in the world so no one else would have to. 

"Do you follow your rules?" he asks. "Or can you ignore them sometimes? I used to be able to ignore mine better. But I don't so much now."

"Most of the time, I can ignore them. They're in my head, yes, but I can overrule them. It's taken me many years to get here, though, so please don't feel that you have to compare yourself with me. You're doing just fine."

"Oh. Well, thank you, but I still don't know if I can believe that. I'm just so… so _bad_."

"Would you please stop saying that," demands Courfeyrac, but yelps immediately after as Grantaire slaps him. "Ow! What was that for?"

"Don't tell him not to say that. You'll make him feel guilty.”

Who said they weren't his babysitters again? Enjolras feels like a little kid. "I'm fine," he says. "Also, I'm sorry."

"Called it," Grantaire mutters, but leaves it there. He starts to rub Enjolras's back in easy, affectionate strokes. "Don't worry, baby. You're right, you're fine. And you don't have to apologize for anything."

Enjolras can't help but push into Grantaire's touch. It's like it ties him down to earth; he can't fly away (or sink too deeply) as long as someone has him here, and for now, Grantaire does. Mr. Fauchelevent smiles a little, noticing this. He's really such a kind soul. 

"Grantaire is right," he says. "You're beyond reproach, my dear. Please try to breathe slowly if you can. It's going to be all right."

Only now does Enjolras realize how little he's breathing. He's practically hyperventilating, and the lack of oxygen's making everything fuzzier than it has to be. As soon as he recognizes this, he tries to suck in a longer breath, but it doesn't work, quite, and he starts to panic, thinking he's going to die. 

"I can't."

Grantaire quickly puts a hand on his chest, and the other on the base of his throat. "It's okay. You can. Breathe, sweetheart, in and out, you can do it."

It's hard. Enjolras's breaths aren't forming very well, like they have to be pushed through water before they can get out. He feels like he's back in the pool from his dream. 

"Don't let me go," he says, or tries to. Grantaire kisses his ear.

"I won't. I have you."

"I can’t– I'm going to”–

"Shh. It's okay. It's okay, baby. Just breathe."

Enjolras tries his best. It takes him awhile, but finally, he gets himself together enough to relax, letting most of the tension out of his body. Although it's still a little hard to breathe, he at least doesn't feel like he's going to die now, and that's something he can be grateful for. Grantaire notices, and kisses him on the head again. 

"Better?"

"Yeah."

"Good. That was good; I know it's hard to calm yourself down sometimes, but you did a great job."

"Can you talk about what's bothering you?" Mr. Fauchelevent asks, seeing that he can talk normally again. "Why do you think you have to die right now?"

"Because it will help the world. It's the only good thing I can do."

"Okay. But even if that were true, why does it have to happen now? Why not, say, next week?"

"Um. Hmm. I guess because I feel too bad to want to wait around until then."

"I see. Well, all right, but you've lasted this long. Why can't you last another few days?"

"Because I'm weak. I'm weak and bad, and I have to die now, because then I can make up for it."

"That doesn't make any sense," says Combeferre. Mr. Fauchelevent looks at him sternly.

"Hush for a second, son."

"Sorry."

"Enjolras," says Mr. Fauchelevent. "I don't think you're weak at all. I think you're very strong for having made it through until today, even though things are incredibly difficult for you. You even got through a forced hospitalization! That's something to be proud of."

"I mean… I don't know."

"I do. And I think it's very admirable that you want to help the world. You have so much goodness in you, so much light and love for everyone around you, and it's very impressive. If there were more people like you, the world would be a better place indeed. That's why I don't believe your death will benefit anyone."

"But it will! It's going to help a lot!"

"Okay. But how, exactly?"

"Ah." Enjolras tries to think of the best way to express himself. He knows vaguely what he's thinking, but it's hard to put it into words. "Well, you know. If I were gone, I wouldn't have to burden my friends anymore."

"You're not a burden," says Courfeyrac immediately. Mr. Fauchelevent shushes him.

"Just listen for now. Go on, Enjolras."

"Oh. Okay, well. I think it would be better for them. Because I'm so annoying, you know? And they wouldn't have to worry about me if I was dead."

Mr. Fauchelevent looks skeptical, but he nods. "All right. So is it just your friends who would benefit from your death?"

"No. I think everyone else would, too."

"Why?"

"Because I'm so annoying and weird, and I'm hideous, so I'm sure people hate looking at me. But also, a lot of people think I'm too pretty, and that makes them uncomfortable, so they hate me, too. And I'm so privileged! I'm just taking up all these resources that should go to someone else, someone more deserving, you know?"

"Would the resources allotted to you automatically go to someone more deserving if you died?"

"I mean, maybe!"

"Okay." Mr. Fauchelevent doesn't look skeptical anymore; now he's downright disbelieving. "My dear, I know how hard it must be for you. But isn't it striking to you that you claim to be a bad person, yet your very reasons for death center around others? You want to die to make the world a better place. Isn't that proof that you're not as bad as you think?"

Enjolras doesn't really know how to reply to this. He blinks in confusion, trying to come up with something convincing. "Grantaire," he says finally. "'Aire! Help? Don't you think I'm a bad person?"

"Are you really asking me that?"

"Yeah!"

"You're ridiculous. Darling, you're not bad in the least. You're the opposite of bad. Un-bad."

"Oh." Enjolras looks at Courfeyrac now. "Do you think I'm bad?"

"Hell no."

Huh. These guys aren't helpful at all. Enjolras huffs in almost-indignation. "'Ferre?"

"Yeah, no. Don't even start with me, angel."

"But–”

"No."

They're probably not telling the truth, but still, Enjolras can't rely on them for help in proving his point. They're too nice. So he looks down, pouting. "I guess you guys don't agree. But I think I'm bad. So there's that."

"But Enjolras," says Mr. Fauchelevent. "If your friends want you around, doesn't that remove one of your reasons for dying?"

"I guess. But I still don't know. I feel like I don't deserve to live."

"I know that's hard, son. I feel the same. But you know what helps me? I believe only God may judge who deserves to live. So I tell myself that– it's not up to us to decide. We didn't create ourselves, so why should we pick and choose whether or not we deserve life?"

"Because I know… well. Hmm. Are you going to tell me that knowledge is subjective again?"

Mr. Fauchelevent laughs. "I was considering it. But I think you know that, so I won't. And I won't try to proselytize you, either; I know metaphysical arguments aren't convincing to everyone. But you do see the point, don't you? You're just a person. You're not on a different level from everyone else, so if you wouldn't impose death on anyone else, you shouldn't impose it on yourself, either."

This is getting interesting. Enjolras thinks he might have stumbled onto something very piquant, wrapped up neatly with the main point of Mr. Fauchelevent's argument. 

"I'm a person," he says. "I know that's true, even though it feels like I'm not real sometimes. But when you said I'm not different than anyone else… I know I'm not better, but– am I not worse, either?"

“Why should you be?”

“Because I’m bad and I do bad things, and I’m not good enough. I’m worse.”

"No, you're not. Why should you hold yourself to a higher standard than the rest of humanity? You're not so special as all that, are you?"

"Ah, that's true. I don't think I'm special, and I do know I'm just an ordinary person, so… but, hmm. Shouldn't I be the best I can, though? I don't want to just accept every bad thing I do."

Mr. Fauchelevent shakes his head. "That's not what I'm saying. You wouldn't accept injustices in this world, because you want everyone to be in the best place possible, right?"

"Of course."

"So it makes sense that you want to be your best self, too. But I think you're equating your best self with some impossible, immaterial, Platonic simulacrum of a human being that no one could ever realize. No one could possibly uphold the standards you set on yourself, not even you. It's good to try your best, but only if your best is still humanly possible."

"And you think mine isn't?"

"I know it isn't."

Enjolras goes quiet, pondering this. It's a lot to take in for such a short conversation. He doesn't know what to think; everything Mr. Fauchelevent said is true, but it's still difficult to accept, because he doesn't know how to let himself be human. Grantaire used to call him a marble statue a long time ago, and to this day, that's how he still feels, humanoid, but devoid of any living warmth, ostensibly perfect, but ready to shatter with a single well-placed strike of a hammer. It's not that he believes himself to be better than anyone else, quite the opposite, in fact, but it's hard to treat himself like a person when he doesn't even feel like one most of the time.

"I don't know how to be," he admits. Courfeyrac looks confused, and Combeferre opens his mouth (probably to ask a clarifying question– he's got that look), but Mr. Fauchelevent speaks first.

"That's all right. You'll figure it out in time. All you need to know right now is that you're a person, too, and you deserve to treat yourself like you treat everyone else. The rest will come."

"Will it?"

"Yes. It's a journey, of course; in fact, I'm still learning more and more everyday. We never stop growing, do we? But I promise, it will happen. Someday, you'll genuinely love yourself for who you are."

It sounds fake. Enjolras can't imagine so much as tolerating himself, let alone loving who he is. But Mr. Fauchelevent is probably the wisest person he knows, and he does seem to know what's going on, so he feels inclined to trust him somewhat.

"Maybe I will. But I don't know if I can hang on that long."

"Well, you don't have to promise anything long-term," says Mr. Fauchelevent. "I know that's hard. But can you at least try to wait a few days before you make a decision? You can't come back once you're dead, you know."

"Just a few days?"

Courfeyrac and Combeferre look like they want to protest. They're frowning fit to bust, faces set. Mr. Fauchelevent ignores them, though.

"Yes. Let's say, until next Wednesday?"

Enjolras wants to disagree on principle, but it's Friday now, and that's not too bad. He can manage a few days. He nods.

"Until next week, then. It's a promise."

"Wonderful."

"A few days," mumbles Courfeyrac. "Great. I feel so much better."

Mr. Fauchelevent ignores this, too. "Enjolras," he says. "I know you must be tired. You've been through a lot in these past couple days, and you should rest. Do you think you could go to sleep if Courfeyrac stays with you? We can make you some hot milk if you'd like."

"You don't have to.”

"It's an offer."

"Oh. Well, then, yes. I could try."

"Good."

This is all the encouragement needed. Combeferre takes the others out to make some milk in the kitchen, and while they're gone, Enjolras changes clothes and brushes his hair. By the time they're back, he's back in bed, cuddling with his stuffed bear (it's not childish; Patria is an _advisor_ , thanks-very-much, just like Grantaire's rubber ducky that he uses to help write code). Courfeyrac smiles at the picture he makes, though, and comes over and kisses him before he hands over the mug.

"Here you go. Hot milk with vanilla and sugar, just the way you like it."

"Thank you so much."

"Of course, sweetie."

"Do you need anything else?" asks Mr. Fauchelevent. "Blankets, water, anything?"

"Oh, no it's okay. This is perfect. But…” 

"What is it?"

"Are you going to leave? I don't really want to be alone."

Courfeyrac pushes aside the comforter and comes into the bed. He wraps an arm around Enjolras's waist, careful not to jostle him. "I'm here. Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere."

"Is that okay?"

"Of course. Remember, this is my room, too."

That's true. Enjolras doesn't have to feel too bad if he's not really putting Courfeyrac out. He dips his head to lay it on Courfeyrac's shoulder (surprisingly strong and well-muscled).

"Thank you."

"You're absolutely welcome, darling. I love you."

"Grantaire, Combeferre," says Mr. Fauchelevent now, seeing that Enjolras is nicely situated. "Boys, can I talk to you for a second? Outside?"

Grantaire and Combeferre look nervous, but they follow Mr. Fauchelevent into the other room, shutting the door on the way out. Enjolras looks at Courfeyrac.

"What's going on?"

"I don't know," Courfeyrac tells him. "But I'm sure it's okay, so don't worry. Jean is really nice."

"Yeah, but…”

"It's okay. Just drink your milk and try to relax."

The obstreperous part of Enjolras wants to refuse, just to be obstinate, but that would make him look even more childish than before, so he does as Courfeyrac says, and starts to sip at his milk. He doesn't love being treated like a baby, but it's better than nothing, and really, it's sort of nice. Courfeyrac was right, his milk is made just how he likes. And he's so comfortable and warm now, and even though his chest still hurts and his head is still beating hard with internal turmoil, he doesn't think he's going to do anything bad tonight. For now (just for now), he can be alive. 

\--

Enjolras stays in bed the next day. He gets up briefly to brush his teeth and change into different pajamas, but that's about as much as he can manage. He spends the rest of the time sleeping and aimlessly browsing websites on his phone, wishing it were possible to distract himself enough for the dark thoughts to go away. It doesn't work, but that's not for lack of trying. 

At around 7, Courfeyrac comes in, wanting to get ready for a dinner out with Cosette and Marius. He's humming to himself, and he looks so happy that Enjolras doesn't have the heart to talk to him and potentially bring him down. He buries himself under his blankets and doesn't move, hoping that to Courfeyrac's obviously already-tipsy eyes, it will just look like an unmade bed, sans severely depressed occupants. 

It doesn't work, though, because he forgets about his long, flowing hair. Courfeyrac prances over to the bed and picks up a lock that's unfortunately sticking out from under the blanket.

"What's this?" he sing-songs. "I see something pretty~! Is Enjolras under there?"

Briefly, Enjolras considers faking sleep, but that might be weird, so he pops his head out from under the blankets, trying to look as cheerful as possible.

"I was just resting."

"Aww, you were resting!" Courfeyrac picks him up out of the bed, sort of like he might pick up a baby, actually. "Little cutie, how are you feeling? Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, I'm okay. I'm a little tired."

"You're tired? Oh no! Did I wake you up?"

"No, don't worry. I was only lying down, not sleeping."

"Baby!" Courfeyrac pushes him back under the covers, and kisses him extravagantly on the forehead. "Go to sleep, go to sleep! And text me if you need anything. I'll answer, I promise!"

Enjolras smiles up at him and watches peacefully as he continues to get ready, and eventually leaves with any number of noisy affirmations. He's so kind, if a little boisterous, so Enjolras can't help but be grateful. But still…

Why is it that everyone treats him like a child? It's not just the fact that Courfeyrac is drunk; sure, he does it more at these times, but the feeling is always sort of there. And the others, too. They're so kind and good, and Enjolras loves them and everything they do for him, but it still sort of seems like they think he's incapable of caring for himself.

Which, granted, might be true. He really is grateful for the care and love that's shown to him in all capacities, especially since he isn't very good at showing it to himself. He would never want to complain about that.

It's still tricky, though. He doesn't know what to think.

Could it all be due to a general lack of information? Cosette studies psychology, and Joly and Combeferre are doctors, but that doesn't mean they're experts in mental health, and of course, the others aren't necessarily, either. It's true, they all have their problems, some more debilitating than others (Grantaire's depression and Joly's anxiety, for example), and that does grant them some insight. It's easier for them to know what to do when they have first-hand experience of their own. Still, illness is so personal, so it's not that far-fetched to think that they really don't know how to deal with Enjolras, no matter how competent they might seem.

That would explain a lot, actually. Information is one of the best ways to make things better, and without it, it's really hard to figure out problems. That's part of the reason Enjolras is so invested in his resource project; if people know what to do, they'll have that much more hope, and that much more ability to change their world.

 _Actually, hmm._ Enjolras feels a connection brewing. Resources, information education… there's something here. He doesn't know quite what it is yet, but it's at the back of his mind, and it's only going to grow from here. He lies back on his pillows, buzzing with a few potential thoughts now, instead of pure anxiety. There's a lot to think about. When he drifts off to sleep a little while later, it's with a half-formed plan running through his mind.

\--

By Monday, Enjolras is feeling well enough to go to school. He brings in his doctor's note, explaining his absences in the past week, and stays after class to talk to his professors. They're all very understanding. His philosophy professor even gives him her personal email address, and tells him to contact her at any time if he feels the need to. He's not exactly sure what this means, but it's a lovely gesture nonetheless.

It's a pretty good day overall, a little tiring, but not substantially worse than usual. And it's nice to get back into routine. When Enjolras gets back to his apartment that afternoon, it's with a stack of makeup handouts, and a new sense of accomplishment.

He's so caught up in thinking about this, and how he's going to review the things he missed in lecture last week, that at first, he misses the dark shadow lurking on the couch. It's only when he hears his name that he stops, looking around the room.

"Montparnasse?"

"Hi, angel." Montparnasse stretches elegantly off the couch. He's wearing one of the most ridiculous outfits Enjolras has ever seen, and some slightly tasteless emo boy-band makeup, but clearly, he thinks he looks great. He swaggers over, runway-style, until he's right up in Enjolras's personal space. "Your lock is broke; I just walked in here. Anyway, what's good?"

"Ah." Enjolras has to admit, he's feeling some amount of trepidation seeing Montparnasse here. Last time, he'd brought the worst news ever, and Enjolras is still trying to deal with the fallout of that. Also, he's disoriented, because he just got back, and he wasn't expecting to see another person yet. "You, um. The lock is broken?"

"Well, it is now."

"Oh."

"Sit down, little bird," says Montparnasse. He takes Enjolras's schoolbag and jacket and lays them carefully by the table. Then, he pulls him onto the couch and settles him down, nodding in satisfaction. "There you go. Comfy."

"Thank you. Um, can I get you anything?"

"No, I'm fine. Just relax. I have good news for you."

"You do?"

"Yeah." Montparnasse smiles, soft like Enjolras knows he can be now. "You know your parents, and their plan to take you home?"

Enjolras doesn't see how anything related to this can be good news, but he swallows bravely, and nods. "Yeah. What about it?"

"Well, you see, it's been resolved."

"What? What do you mean?"

"I mean, they're not going to bring you back anymore. They gave up on that idea."

"How? What? They won’t… What?" Enjolras clutches at Montparnasse's hand with both of his own. "Please don't be playing a trick on me. Please be serious."

"I'm not playing a trick on you," Montparnasse tells him. "I might be an asshole, but I'm not that bad. Don't worry, little thing, this is for real."

It takes a second for Enjolras to be able to think straight. The relief is so great that it's bowled him over, left him reeling. Just like that, one of the greatest problems he's ever faced has been dealt with, and he didn't even have to lift a finger to make it happen. He would be tempted to think it's too good to be true, but he knows Montparnasse, and he trusts him. He wouldn't lie about this. 

"How did this happen?" he asks, once he's gotten himself under some semblance of control. Montparnasse hesitates.

"Don't be upset."

"Why? What happened?"

Enjolras has visions of Montparnasse and his boys visiting his parents and roughing them up, maybe tying them up and driving around with them in the trunk of a car, or using duct tape to pull their arm hair off, or pouring hot water on their feet, or whatever it is that criminal-type people do (he really has no idea). It's a little alarming. Sure, he has issues with his parents, but he doesn't want them to be hurt, either.

But Montparnasse laughs, probably at the expression on his face. "Whatever you're thinking, no. It wasn't even me, not really. It was mostly Grantaire and Combeferre."

"Grantaire and Combeferre? But… they don't even know my parents well. What did they do?"

"They felt bad about hurting you, so they decided to take a day off work and drive out to Orange County together. They asked me along, too. I found your parents' house, and we all went in, and Grantaire and Combeferre persuaded them to let you stay where you are."

That's a lot of information to take in. Enjolras decides to wade right in and start at the top. "Why did they feel bad? I told them that it's okay!"

"And you were being serious?"

"Yeah! I don't blame them at all."

Montparnasse shakes his head. "I don't get how you can be so understanding. I know I'd flip my shit if I saw my partner making out with my best friend. It's just not cool, you know?"

"No, it's cool. It's not like they were cheating."

"Well, still."

"Montparnasse!" Enjolras pulls on his hand, signaling a change in subject. "What did they do? Did they have to tie them up? Did they use chloroform?"

"Uh, what?"

"You know! To get them to agree to leave me alone!"

"No," says Montparnasse. He pauses. "Although, that would've been pretty cool. I gotta remember that for next time."

"Next time?"

Montparnasse laughs. "Don't worry, pretty baby. It was chill, you know? Combeferre just talked at them, and Grantaire and I sat there and looked intimidating. It only took about two hours to get it all straightened out."

"Really? And they said they'll leave me alone now?"

"Yeah. We even got it in writing. Wanna see?"

"Um, sure."

Montparnasse pulls a piece of paper out of his coat. Apparently, he'd come prepared. He unfolds it with a flourish. "Voilà."

Enjolras inspects it. It's a printed legal document, neatly typed in 10-point single-space, with five signatures at the bottom, Enjolras's parents, and Combeferre, Grantaire, and Montparnasse as witnesses. Enjolras has to wonder who drafted it; it seems remarkably extensive.

"Is this binding?" he asks.

"Not really. I don't think you could take it to court or anything. But hopefully, it'll be enough to keep you safe for now."

Enjolras sets the paper on the coffee table (he wants to be careful with this important document, even though he knows Combeferre probably has extra copies), and flings his arms around Montparnasse's neck. He kisses him on each cheek, then buries his face against his shoulder.

"Thank you so much," he says. Hopefully, Montparnasse's jacket muffles his voice enough to hide how choked-up it is. Montparnasse puts a hand on the back of his head and just holds him for awhile, not even saying anything, just snuggling. Sometimes, Enjolras wonders if he's actually touch-starved or something, because it seems unlikely that a purposefully aloof man like him could get hugs regularly. At any rate, he seems perfectly happy to cuddle with Enjolras whenever the situation arises.

Eventually, though, Montparnasse moves, although he still doesn't make any sign of pushing Enjolras away. "Can I tell you something?" he asks. 

Enjolras nods as best he can. "Of course."

"Okay, well." Montparnasse breathes in and out very slowly, like he's trying to calm himself down. "Listen, you can't laugh at me, okay?"

"You know I wouldn't."

"No, I know. Okay, so. I want to go back to school. I'm going to try and get my GED."

"Really?" Enjolras sits up in excitement, and grasps Montparnasse by the shoulders. "Are you serious, Mont? That's wonderful! I'm so proud of you!"

"Yeah, well. It's something to do, right?"

Enjolras isn't having any of this. He's not going to let Montparnasse downplay his dreams like this, not when he's finally doing something just for himself, instead of for his boys, or for Eponine's family. It's not something anyone would expect of him, and it probably took a lot of courage for him to even decide on doing it, so Enjolras is legitimately impressed.

"It really is wonderful," he says. "I know you'll do great. You're so smart, you know? I'm excited for you!"

Montparnasse looks down. He doesn't blush much, but Enjolras has the feeling he would be, if his face worked that way. "I haven't even done anything yet. I might crash and burn."

"Maybe, but I don't think you will. You work so hard on everything you do, so I know you'll work hard on this, too. And besides, we're all supporting you! We won't let you get too stressed out."

"You're not all supporting me," says Montparnasse, but when Enjolras opens his mouth to contest this, he flaps his hand and goes on quickly. "No, it's not like that. It's just, you're the only one who knows. I haven't told anyone else yet."

"Really? Why not? Do you think they wouldn't be supportive?"

"No. Well, no, maybe. I just don't know."

"I think they would. Eponine did the same thing, you know, so I'm sure she'd be cheering for you."

Montparnasse doesn't look convinced. "Maybe she would. But I'm afraid of failing, and having her be disappointed in me. And it's not just her; you know Jehan doesn't like higher education much, so what if they think I'm selling out or something?"

"I don't think they would think that," Enjolras tells him. "They support everyone, you know."

"I guess. But I mean, they're my best friend. I don't want them to start hating me because I wanted to take part in the _oppressive establishment_."

"They wouldn't. They like Combeferre, and he’s about as educated as anyone his age can be."

"Yeah, but I'm not him. I don't know, I'm worried. I don't want to lose them."

Enjolras doesn't know what to say, because he has this fear too, so he just snuggles up close again. "It's okay," he says into Montparnasse's shoulder. "I know everything will work out. I believe it with all my heart."

It wouldn't be terribly convincing to him, and he's a little ashamed of himself for providing such a lackluster comfort statement, but Montparnasse seems pleased with it. He makes a happy little sound, incongruous and unfitting with his sharp demeanor, but sweet nonetheless, and hugs Enjolras closer.

"Thank you, sweetheart."

"I mean it, though. It's going to be okay. We'll _make_ it okay. I have so much faith."

"I know you do. You have faith in everyone." Montparnasse kisses him lightly on the head, just a sweet little brush of lips, but full of kindness and affection. "Well, everyone except yourself. Poor baby."

"That's because I'm bad."

"Aren't I bad, too?"

"You're not! You're nice." Enjolras looks up, needing to be believed. "Mont, you don't really think you're bad, do you?"

"Well, I don't know. I think I'm kind of bad."

"Not more than anyone else. I appreciate you, you know? You're so nice to me. And I know you have issues with some people, and maybe you don't fit society's ideal, but really, who among us does? You're a good person, even though it's harder for some people to see. And I love you."

"I love you, too." Montparnasse's voice sounds funny. He clears his throat in what he probably thinks is a subtle manner. "You're an angel, did you know that?"

" _You're_ an angel."

Montparnasse laughs suddenly. "Thank you, sweetie. And I'm not laughing at you, but I just remembered. Someone said that to Eponine once, and she went, 'no, I'm the devil, but it's all the same to me.' And if that's not the edgiest, most extra thing I've ever heard, I'll eat my three copies of _Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge_."

Enjolras laughs, too. He loves his friends so much. They're amazing people, so sweet and hilarious, even if they _are_ edgelords sometimes. He tucks his head under Montparnasse's chin and closes his eyes.

"Can I rest here?"

"Of course, angel."

Montparnasse shifts so that they're both more comfortable, and starts petting his hair. He might even be humming a little tune, but Enjolras couldn't say for sure. At any rate, he's safe and comfortable, and for now, that's all he could possibly ask for. Life might get him down sometimes, but it comes right back up again, too. That's something he really needs to remember. Sure, he usually wants to die. But the rest of the time, he can have things like this. Maybe, just maybe (he's not promising anything, but it's a possibility), it might all be worth it sometimes.


	15. Chapter 15

"'Ferre, what do you know about starting a non-profit?"

Combeferre peers up from his book, looking like he’s still sort of lost in Wonderland. "What?"

"A non-profit. How do you start one?"

"It's complicated. You need to jump through a couple of bureaucratic hoops, and contact the IRS, and… wait." Combeferre narrows his eyes, studying Enjolras carefully. "Why are you asking this? Are you trying to create an organization?"

Enjolras sits down on the couch beside Combeferre and curls up, mostly for the delaying time. This is a tricky question to answer. "Well," he says.

"Oh, no. Enjolras, you're still in undergrad. You don't have much experience with these things. And besides, you barely got out of the hospital a week ago. Is this really something that you want to do?"

"I mean, I think it would be a good idea." Enjolras tugs on Combeferre's sleeve, insistently trying to draw his attention (even though he probably already has it). "Listen! You know I'm really invested in my resource project, and I know it could help a lot of people— but it isn't so far, because no one knows about it! I think if I made a real organization, it could help more. Then it wouldn't just be me typing away on Google Docs by myself, you know?"

"I mean…”

"And think about how much I could expand it! I want to provide information and education, as well as resources. I was thinking about it, you know. People don't know a lot about mental health, and that causes problems. I'm sure a lot of people get hospitalized like I do, because they just don't know what to do, or where to turn, or anything. And if that's the case, isn't it really likely that there's a lot of areas that need more elucidation? I'm so sure, 'Ferre! People need information, and if I could help to provide it, that would be wonderful!"

"Oh my. I don't know, Enjolras. That's a lot of responsibility on you."

"That's okay! I want to help!"

Combeferre sits still and doesn't say anything for a moment. He's obviously thinking hard, maybe trying to come up with the best way to phrase his response. He does that sometimes. Enjolras waits as patiently as he can, although he can't stop tapping on his knee, trying to dispense with some of his nervous energy. 

"What is it?" he asks, finally. Combeferre sighs.

"I don't know how to say this, really, so please don't be upset. But… you're not the most stable. What if you can't handle the stress for a bit (which is totally fine and understandable, of course), and it causes problems for your target demographic? What if you feel too ill to show up to a meeting, and your person doesn't get the information you told them you'd provide? What if you promise something, but can't deliver it? It wouldn't be your fault, and no one could blame you for being ill, but it would still cause a problem. I'm not trying to sound mean, but it's hard when you engage with the community. You have to be able to follow through."

This is a true and good point, but Enjolras is ready. He's considered this well. "It won't just be me," he says. "Believe me, I'm also leery of starting things that I can't finish, especially if they impact people's lives. But I'm going to recruit for help! Yeah, I'd like to be able to do it all by myself, but that's not practical. If I have backup, then it's okay for me to be sick sometimes, because someone else can cover."

"You're going to ask people to cover for you? _You_? You never ask for help!"

"Not for myself, no. But this is for other people. It's important."

"You're important too. But yeah, all right, I see, though. I'm just wondering, do you think you'll be able to ask when the time comes?"

"I hope so," Enjolras tells him honestly. "I'm not sure, since it hasn't happened yet. But if I think of it really pragmatically, like there's a job, and someone needs to do it, maybe it would be easier to ask for help then. Because I would still be making sure it got done, you know? It just wouldn't be me doing it directly."

All in all, he's not sure it's a good answer, but Combeferre looks satisfied. He nods a few times, then takes off his glasses and polishes them. Enjolras has to wonder what he's about to say; if he's going to all this trouble of thinking about it beforehand, it has to be something intense. It's probably going to be bad. He's going to tell Enjolras that he's a silly little schoolboy who doesn't know how to live in the real world, and also that he hates him, and that he doesn't want him to live in the apartment anymore. Yeah, that sounds about right. Oh dear! Enjolras tries to put on his best brave face. If he's going to be hated and evicted, he may as well look dramatic about it.

Combeferre looks at him strangely. "Enjolras, what are you doing?"

"Preparing."

"For what?"

"Whatever it is you're going to tell me."

Combeferre hurries to pat him and hold his hand. "No, no. Don't worry, I'm not going to tell you anything bad. Or at least, I hope not. I just wanted to say... I hope this isn't unwanted, but I'm here to help. If you want it."

Enjolras can barely believe his ears. He turns around and grabs Combeferre right back. "You mean it? _Really_ really?"

"I do."

"Oh my God, ' _Ferre_! You really are amazing. I can't believe you would help me, even though you're so busy and everything. Is that really okay? Can you manage it?"

"I can. It's an important cause. We always make room for what's important, right?"

If Enjolras were Courfeyrac, he would kiss Combeferre right on the mouth, and if he were Joly, he would pull him to his feet and spin him around the room. He's just Enjolras, though, so he climbs onto his lap and gets cozy, talking the entire time.

"You're really such a good person. I know I say it a lot, but I appreciate you so much. It's not only the way you support me in everything, I mean, I appreciate that too, but I also really admire the way you're so passionate about helping the world. You're so _good_ and you have so much beauty and light in you, and it really does inspire me, 'Ferre, I hope you know that."

Combeferre seems to be struck quiet. He pats Enjolras, but doesn't make a sound. When Enjolras looks up at him, his eyes are wide and his mouth is open just the littlest bit. It's probably not bad. He does this sometimes when he's really stunned by something, but generally it's not the bad things that leave him speechless. So Enjolras waits, enjoying being petted, knowing that Combeferre will find his words sooner or later. 

And, he does. "Thank you," he says. "You always say such beautiful things. I don't know if I'm quite as good as that, but it means so much to me to hear you say it."

"You are that good! Even Feuilly looks up to you, you know? So that proves it."

Combeferre chuckles quietly. "Is that how it is?"

"Yeah! Feuilly is always right."

"I guess that _does_ prove it, then."

They're both quiet for a beat. The mood in the room is light, like they're both lost in thought, but the thoughts are kind and happy ones. Presently, Enjolras leans back and looks up at Combeferre upside-down.

"So, 'Ferre. What _do_ you know about starting a nonprofit?"

\--

Combeferre makes Enjolras talk to Mr. Fauchelevent instead. He's good at pretty much everything in this world (and probably the next, judging by his genuine piety), and Combeferre insists that he'll know something useful about nonprofit work. 

Sure enough, when Enjolras meets him at what's becoming their usual cafe, he has a three-ring binder with him, as well as several print-outs of various articles. If he weren't so stoic, Enjolras would be tempted to say that he looks pleased with himself. 

"Hello, son," he says cheerfully. "I must say, I'm flattered that you came to me about this. It's something I'm very passionate about."

Enjolras raises his eyebrows. "What _aren't_ you passionate about?"

Mr. Fauchelevent has to think about that one for awhile. He's not the most demonstrative man, but he has such depths of love inside him that he can't help but be touched by everything around him. Finally, he laughs.

"Software updates. I never know what the point is."

Passionate and saintly, yes. Able to act like anything but a suburban dad, no.

Enjolras loves it about him. 

"What's all this?" he asks. "Did you just have stacks of resources lying around?"

"I had a few things. And when I heard you were interested, I printed off a few more." He pauses, thumbs through the stack of papers. "It does look a bit excessive, doesn't it? Maybe I went overboard."

"That's impossible."

"Ah, good attitude. Well, why don't we narrow these down, at least. Can you describe your project? What do you have in mind?"

"A nonprofit organization," Enjolras says. "I love my resource thing, but I want to expand it. It's hard for people to access resources if they don't know how to get to them. If I make an actual, credible organization, people can come and get the help they need. Oh! And I want to provide education, too. Especially on things like mental health that aren't covered as well in the media. I think that would really help."

"It would." Mr. Fauchelevent sounds too cautious. Enjolras leans towards him.

"What? Is it not a good plan?"

"It's a good plan, but… how exactly are you going to carry this out, Enjolras? You're still in college, you know."

"I know, but I have some free time. I'm sure I could work in between and after classes."

Mr. Fauchelevent sighs carefully. He scratches his little white beard like some kind of saintly hipster. "Listen, I don't want to invalidate your wish to help, but I don't know if you know how much work it is to run a nonprofit. It would take a team of full-time professionals to staff it, not just an inexperienced college student with a little bit of free time. I'm sorry if that sounds harsh, but it's true. We can't expect to help people if we're not actually capable of doing anything for them."

It does sound harsh, but Enjolras isn't offended. Rather, he's thoughtful, wondering if he's really trying to do more than is possible for any one person. It could very well be. He's always been ambitious, but that means he's always been ready to bite off more than he can chew, too. Mr. Fauchelevent probably knows what he's talking about; he knows everything. No doubt he's speaking from firsthand experience here. But that doesn't mean Enjolras is going to turn around and give up, either.

"What can I do, then?" he asks.

"In terms of your non-profit?"

"Yeah."

"Hmm. Well, you could consider operating on a slightly smaller scale. Say, make a club, either on campus, or off. Anyone can do that without going through such official channels."

It's doable, but… "I want to be official, though. I want to be taken seriously."

"Well, that's really up to you, isn't it? Not your organization. You could be internationally known, and still be a joke. Just look at PETA."

That's a nice little nugget of wisdom. Enjolras sits and ponders. It's probably true, now that he thinks about it; there's plenty of nationally recognized organizations that aren't worth the paper their 501(c)(3) certification is printed on. He could very easily go down the same path if he gets complacent and continues to conflate recognition with quality.

But now that he's considering this, he's starting to doubt himself. Putting the onus on his own competence is undoubtedly the right thing to do, but it's scary, because he doesn't actually think he's very competent at all when it comes right down to it. At least if he had some sort of pre-made organizational structure to fall back on, he could use the nonprofit rule-book as a sort of security blanket. This sort of improvisational rugged individualism is getting more and more daunting with each passing second.

"I don't know if I can do it," he says. 

"Why not?"

There's no good way to express it, Enjolras thinks. He's going to sound whiny no matter what. He's tempted to just shake his head and not say anything, but that's not a good answer, and besides, he's trying to get better at expressing himself (at least in safe environments like this one), so he silently counts to three and speaks.

"I don't know if I'm good enough."

Mr. Fauchelevent doesn't look judgmental, which is good, but he's frowning a little, in a confused sort of way. "Are you good enough to run a nonprofit?"

Probably not. But that doesn't matter.

"It's different," Enjolras says. "If I was making an official organization, there would be guidelines I could follow, and maybe I could get some help from other people, and then I wouldn't have to just rely on myself, so if I made a mistake, it could be fixed. But if I made a club, it would be all me, you know? There wouldn't be any framework. It would just be me messing up by myself."

"You don't think others would help you if it wasn't an official organization?"

"I don't think so. I mean, I'm not really credible by myself, am I?"

"You could be. And don't sell yourself short; I'm sure there's a lot of people who'd be glad to help you. Your friends, for instance."

Enjolras remembers Combeferre's promise to help, and how his friends had been so supportive of his ideas while he was in the hospital. It does seem like he should be able to rely on them. But still, it feels weird to ask them to put in so much time and effort, when they all have their own busy lives to lead.

"I couldn't ask them to do that," he says.

"You could, actually, but more importantly, I believe that they would be more than willing to help. They seem to possess the same values and passion that you do, so I'm fairly sure that your cause would just as equally be theirs."

"Really?"

"Quite. I know for a fact that Cosette would be just as enthusiastic as you to get a chance to help others. She doesn't regret where she is now, but I know she doesn't want any other children to go through the things she did. And Courfeyrac is a very passionate young man. I don't know if we've ever had a conversation in which he didn't bring up some social issue or other. Marius is quiet, and he doesn't have the same scope of vision, but I'm sure he would be glad to lend a hand, too."

"Oh. Um— you think so?"

"I do. I admit, I don't know your other friends quite as well, because my daughter isn't dating them. But I know in my heart that they would be just as ready to help."

If that were true, Enjolras would have a ready-made club of like-minded people, all ready to do their best to help the community around them. It would make his life much easier, especially since he already knows and trusts his friends, and would feel comfortable both working with them and delegating them tasks. All things considered, it really would be a dream come true. It just seems too good to believe. 

He believes Mr. Fauchelevent, though, or at least he wants to badly enough that he can't completely discount the possibility. Surely the best possible outcome can happen sometimes, right? There's goodness in the world, and good things do happen, so it's not unreasonable to think that the stars might align in his life, too. It seems selfish to think this, but… it's logical. He's a person, and therefore, he can have good things, just like anyone else. Nothing wrong with that.

Mr. Fauchelevent coughs gently. "What are you thinking, my dear? You're so pensive."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I was just thinking, maybe you're right. Maybe I could do this."

"There's nothing to apologize for. And yes, I believe you can. You're more than capable."

"I don't know about that, but if you really think my friends would help, I would feel a lot better about starting and seeing what happens."

"Well, yes, we can never know what the future will hold. But it's not like you're jumping in blindly, either." Mr. Fauchelevent holds up one of his binders (it's about three inches thick, and looks terribly heavy, but he doesn't flinch). "There's a lot of guidelines for starting clubs, too. You have a bit more freedom, but you can still follow a structure. It doesn't have to be overwhelming."

Enjolras takes the binder in both hands. He almost drops it anyway. "What _is_ all this?"

"This has some suggestions for starting up unofficial organizations, or that is, organizations that don't answer to strict channels. I think you can find ideas for a club in here."

"Hmm." Enjolras opens the binder and starts to page through it. It's not very organized, and there are loose-leaf papers popping out all over the place, but it's not like he's not used to chaos, so he doesn't mind. It's a lot of information, though, so before too long, he closes the cover again. "Can I borrow this?"

"Certainly. That's why I brought it. And once you decide what you want to do, I can give you more specific resources if you'd like."

"That would be wonderful," Enjolras peeps, probably looking silly with his big smile, but not really caring at this point. "Thank you so much, Mr. Fauchelevent! You're so helpful. I don't know why you do it, but you've helped me so many times, and I appreciate it so much!"

"Aw. My dear, it's really nothing. Please believe me when I tell you that I want to help you in any way that I can."

Enjolras doesn't know what to say to this, so he ducks his head and mumbles something that's probably not even English, and starts flipping through the binder again, just to have something to do. Mr. Fauchelevent accepts it, though, and for the next hour or so, they sit together and talk over basic strategies for starting a club. By the time Enjolras leaves, he's feeling a little better about setting out for his new enterprise.

\--

Enjolras's first appointment back with Dahlia starts out unproductive. He knows it's not her fault for leaving and going off to the conference, and he doesn't blame her at all, but the irrational part of him is miffed that she left him to the whimsy of the Resnick psychiatric staff at such a vulnerable time in his life. Of course, he doesn't want to tell her this, but he's so impassioned while talking about his experience that his feelings probably bleed through anyway. She lets him talk for a solid twenty minutes without interrupting, and by the time he's done, his breath is coming short.

"I see," she says when he makes it clear that he's done ranting for the moment. "So, that's not a fun experience. I'm so sorry, dear. I do wish that hadn't happened to you."

"Yeah, that makes two of us."

"How do you feel now? Are you still a little shaken up?"

"Hmm, not as much as I thought I would be. But it's weird." Enjolras taps his finger on his knee, chock-full of nervous energy. "I don't even know if I should tell you things, just in case it happens again."

"Oh dear me, that's what I was afraid of. No, please don't worry, I won't do that to you, especially given your particular fears. Please feel free to tell me anything you'd like— though if you feel hesitant at any point, that is, of course, also perfectly fine."

"But what if you thought I was in danger? What would you do?"

"I wouldn't let you out of my sight," says Dahlia. "I know you're very persuasive, and you're such a sweet, charming little thing that you'd probably wriggle out of it if I tried for anything else. But no, I would keep you here, within my sights, until I could call someone to come and get you. I wouldn't send you to the hospital unless you wanted to go there yourself."

Well, that's something that's _never_ going to happen. Enjolras exhales slowly. It's a relief to hear this, of course, and he wants to believe it, but he can't make himself do so just yet. He doesn't want to get burned again.

"So, even if I said I was going to die?" he asks. "Even if I had a plan. You still wouldn't institutionalize me?"

Dahlia frowns. "Should I take this to mean that you do have a plan?"

"Of course. I always do." Enjolras flaps his hand dismissively. "Not important. But can you give your word that you'll take my consent into consideration before you do anything that will impact me?"

“I… yes. I can. But Enjolras, what's this plan of yours? Can you tell me?"

"Yeah, sure. Which one?"

"Which _one_?"

"Yeah. I have several."

"Well." Dahlia swallows hard. "All of them, I suppose."

"Okay."

Enjolras tells her his plans— all of them. After all, she promised, so it should be okay. If she puts him in the hospital anyway, he can sue her for lying under Hippocratic oath or something. 

It's kind of weird talking so dispassionately about this; he's outlining plans for his own death so calmly, almost like he's talking about someone else. It could be, really. He doesn't feel much of anything right now, not much distress, or melancholy, or regret at a life wasted. It's all just— blank. 

"That's all there is to it," he finishes finally, feeling way too flippant, but not sure how else to be, because he doesn't want to fake emotion that's not there. If he dies, it's not sad for him, so he doesn't see any point in pretending that it is just so that his therapist can feel more comfortable. "Is that weird? Sorry if you didn't like hearing that. It's what it is, though."

"I wouldn't say that I _liked_ hearing it, necessarily," says Dahlia very slowly. "I worry about you, Enjolras. You're a sweet boy, and you have so much goodness and love in you, and I really do believe that you're going to make the world a better place. But you're worryingly fixated on suicide, and I do have to wonder if you're going to attempt it someday."

Enjolras shrugs. "I might. Who knows? I don't."

"Well, that makes me worry. Is there anything I can do to make you feel less inclined to do that?"

"What, so you can feel more comfortable about not having a patient die on your watch?"

"That's not it, and you know it."

Enjolras slaps himself on the arm. "Yeah, I do know. I'm sorry."

Unfortunately, this doesn't seem to help much. Dahlia frowns, the crease between her eyes (which has been there from almost the start) just getting deeper than ever. "You don't need to hit yourself," she says gently.

"No, I do."

"Oh? And why's that?"

"Because I did bad."

"What did you do that was bad?"

"I was rude to you."

Dahlia sighs. "Comparatively speaking, you weren't. You wouldn't believe some of the people who come in here. But even if you were, it's my job to deal with that, so you don't have to punish yourself for saying what's on your mind."

Enjolras shakes his head insistently, needing to express himself, but unsure of how to make Dahlia believe him. "No, but I have to. That's the rule."

"Ah, right. Your rules. What will happen if you don't follow them?"

"Are you telling me not to follow them?"

"No. I'm just asking, what happens?"

This is something to think about. Enjolras knows, or at least he does in theory, something vague in his head about messing up the fragile order of things, and hurting everyone, and ruining everything in this entire world, whether or not it's related to him in any way. Maybe it's dramatic; so what? It feels true. 

Unfortunately, the drama likely makes it unbelievable, especially to someone like Dahlia, who's official and licensed and has the power to institutionalize him at the tips of her fingers. He doesn't want to sound like a sad kid seeking attention (though of course, that's exactly what he is), so for the sakes of both of them, he should probably turn it down a bit.

Well then, what happens when he breaks a rule? How can he describe the horror that's lack of adherence to the code of what's Good and Right? It's not easy. He knows his head gets cluttered, and he starts buzzing uncomfortably until he can do something to make it better, but it can't just be anything; it has to be the pre-approved punishment to fit the crime. That's why he usually slaps himself. It's okay enough to satisfy the alarm bells that go off in his head when he breaks a rule, and even though he wishes he could do something else, something that would hurt him more, maybe, this is at least socially acceptable.

He wishes it weren't like this. It's really annoying, having to live by this system all the time. He envies people like his friends who can go forth and live their lives without spending every moment boxed into the rigid confines of the system that allows them to function in the everyday world. Of course they have their struggles too, but he sometimes thinks he would be willing to take those instead if only he didn't have to contend with his own stringent, exhausting system anymore. 

It must be nice. He can't exactly imagine it, because he can't remember much about a time when he didn't live by his internal rule-book setup, but he knows theoretically that other people must have very different lifestyles, lifestyles that make him want to cry because they seem so _nice_. And he's not complaining— he can't, not when he has it so much better than so many others, and he's so privileged and unworthy of making a fuss. Even so, his is an uncomfortable way to live, and though he's ashamed to even think it to himself, he's unhappy with where he is mentally.

"Enjolras? Are you all right, dear?"

Enjolras starts up, realizing he hasn't replied to Dahlia, lost in thought as he is. "Oh, sorry. Um, what were you saying?"

"Your rules. What happens if you break one?"

"I have to do something. It's so uncomfortable, and I can't focus or do anything until I make it all right again."

"So you can't function until you make restitution for breaking one of your own rules? That you created?"

"I know it sounds stupid."

"No, not at all, my dear, I'm not saying that at all. I'm only asking for clarification. I want to know if I'm understanding you correctly, after all. So to make sure, you have a system of rules in your head that you have to follow in order to go through your day, and when you break one, you have to ritualize to make yourself comfortable again?"

Enjolras ducks his head. He's still embarrassed, in spite of Dahlia's kind words and clinical outline of his system. "Yeah, that's about it."

"I see. Well, then, let me ask you this. Do you have a rule about eating, too?"

"Yeah, lots."

"Okay. What are they?"

"Oh. Well, okay. So, in the day, I can eat one time if I'm good, but it has to be something that's okay. If I drink a smoothie, that counts as food, but other drinks are okay, and don't count. Then at night, I can eat one time, but not after 8pm. And if the food I ate in the day was in the afternoon instead of in the morning, then the food at night has to be a smoothie or fruit or a cereal bar. It can't be _food_ food. Oh! And if I go over 1000 calories, then I have to take away from the next day to make up for it, and punish myself too. Also, if I'm bad, then I can't eat during the day. And if I do _really_ bad, then I can't eat at night, either. But you know, I don't _have_ to eat. It's just… optional, you know? I don't want you to think I'm being gluttonous."

"You are _not_ being gluttonous," says Dahlia firmly. "In fact, I would urge you to think carefully about that. Would you say that someone who eats three meals a day is a glutton?"

"Of course not— that's normal. But…”

"Then, you're not any more of a glutton, are you? 

"Oh, well…”

Dahlia nods. "Think about it. Now, anyway. Were those all of your rules?"

"No, I have more. But they're all sort of like that. And they all work together, you know?"

"That must be a lot to keep in your head."

"It's okay. I have to have them."

"Why do you have to have them?"

All these impossible questions. Sometimes therapy feels more grueling than any exam Enjolras has ever taken. He almost wants to ask for multiple choice, just so he can have a chance of giving the right response. As it is, on his own, he doubts he'll be able to come up with it.

"I don't know," he admits finally, voice small. 

"Does it make you feel safer?"

There's the answer, finally. "I guess. I'm not sure; there might be more to it, too. But that's part of it."

"I see. Could you articulate what else there is to it?"

 _No_. But that's not a fair answer; Enjolras knows. He has to try. "Umm. I think part of it might have to do with me wanting to punish myself. I have to atone for my existence in some way, and if I don't do good then I don't deserve to eat, so…”

"But what's good to you?"

Enjolras flaps at Dahlia, hoping he's not being rude, but unable to stop himself. "You know. _Good_. I have to be good and do good. I can't mess anything up."

"So you're not allowed to make mistakes? You have to be perfect?"

"Yeah."

Dahlia doesn't look pleased. Enjolras would be amused at this, because here he is telling her how desperately he needs to do things right and be good and she's showing how bad she thinks this is (how bad _he_ is), but he's eaten up with worry. Is he doing _too_ bad? Did he make Dahlia angry? Will she never want to see him again, and he'll never get care and sink so deeply into his own head that he'll never be able to emerge?

It's almost enough to make him panic, but fortunately, Dahlia smiles gently, still looking less-than-happy, but not scary anymore. "Don't worry, my dear. I can tell by your face that you're thinking something else, but I'm not upset, and you don't have to be either. Your feelings are valid."

"It's not bad?"

"Well… I wouldn't say I'm _glad_ that you feel this way. It must be very difficult for you, and I'm so sorry about that. But it's not your fault, either. The most important thing is that we take things from where they are now."

Such sensible advice, and so typically therapist-like. Enjolras almost smiles. He knows it's true, and in fact, he can even accept it as such now, but he's still not mentally healthy enough to be able to generate a statement like that by himself without prompting. Worrying about things he can't change— that's his modus operandi, isn't it?

Well. It doesn't have to be. Dahlia's words and his acceptance of them are evidence of that. He can change, can expand his mindset to include health, can _recover_. Maybe it seems impossible now, but there's still a glimmer of hope, just behind his heart, whispering that maybe things won't be like this always. It'll probably be gone in a minute; that's okay. It's the fact that it was there that matters.

"What are you thinking now?" Dahlia asks. She's probably worried that he's still upset and is about to break down in front of her. Enjolras smiles, hastening to reassure her.

"I'm okay! I was just thinking that you're right. I need to start from where I am. And that makes me feel a little better, actually, because it means that it's okay to be where I am now. I don't have to feel bad about it."

Dahlia purses her lips. "Were you feeling bad about it before?"

"Yeah. I don't like myself, you know, and I couldn't accept that I wasn't doing my absolute best all the time. And I still feel that, actually, but I can also see that that's not the only option, if that makes sense? I can work on it."

"Yes, you absolutely can, my dear."

"Yeah! I can get better, I can… oh, never mind. It probably won't work. I won't recover right."

"Why do you say that?"

"I don't know. I just feel like I never do anything right, so I probably won't do this right, either. I shouldn't get my hopes up."

"What's wrong with getting your hopes up?"

Enjolras sticks out his lower lip. "Because then I'll be disappointed."

"Hmm." Dahlia sighs softly, takes a sip of tea (she's continued her habit of brewing a pot whenever Enjolras comes in, seeing that it calms him), and sighs again. "Do you remember when you were complaining about your boyfriend a few sessions back?"

"I wasn't _complaining_ about him."

"Yes, well. Do you remember how you were telling me how cynical he is, how he tries his hardest never to believe in anything, or have any hope, because he doesn't want it to get crushed? What was it you said back then?"

It's a trick. Dahlia's doing that goddamn Socratic teaching method, and there's nothing Enjolras can do to stop her. Damn it, he hates the Socratic teaching method. It's so humiliating to have to prove himself wrong like a silly child. People always want to use it on him, though, and Dahlia, wonderful though she is, is no exception. 

"I said he was wrong," Enjolras sighs, resigning himself to it. "Because you know, there's no point in not believing in anything— that's a belief in of itself. So we might as well believe in something that could give us a chance at making things better."

"Exactly."

"Right. So I know I'm being hypocritical here, and that's bad and all—”

"Not at all. Your feelings are valid."

"Uh, okay. But it's still hypocritical. I mean, anyway. Um, so I guess it's true, but it's hard to apply it to myself. It's that thing again, where everyone else is real except me. It's so hard to remember that I'm a person sometimes. I guess I'm pretty terrible. I mean, I'm not _trying_ to put myself up on a pedestal or anything, but…”

"What you're going through is a difficult thing for a lot of people. You're not alone, and your thoughts don't make you weird or bad or anything like that. Okay?"

"Mm."

"Hey." Dahlia leans forward, still holding her teacup. "Remember, this is a judgement-free zone. I'm not thinking any of these things about you. And I hope you don't feel like you have to, either."

Her phrasing is interesting. Enjolras appreciates that she didn't tell him not to think these things at all, because while thought-stopping may be a viable and important skill, he's not good at it. So the assurance that he doesn't _have to_ make his mind go in a certain (painful) way is much more fitting, as well as comforting. He doesn't have to make himself feel guilty because it's the right thing to do, just like he doesn't have to look for excuses to feel bad, thinking that he deserves it. Really, it should be an obvious fact, but it isn't for him, and the idea that he doesn't have to beat himself up over it is oddly freeing. 

"Thank you," he says.

Dahlia smiles, bemused, amused, and charmed. "You don't have to thank me either, dear."

"But I want to."

"Ah. Well, far be it from me to prevent you from doing what you want."

Is she treating him like a child? It's hard to tell. To be on the safe side, Enjolras decides to switch subjects. 

"Can you give me some advice?" he asks.

"I can try."

"Okay. Well, you see, I want to start a club."

"A club?"

"Yeah. You know how I was doing my resources? I want to expand that, so I can provide education to everyone, and help people who need it. And I probably need other people's help to do that, so, a club."

"I see." Dahlia scratches her chin. If she had a beard, she'd probably be stroking it. "So you want to make a little nonprofit, is that it?"

"Yeah, but it can't be a nonprofit. Or at least, not yet. Maybe once I graduate— no, never mind. I should focus on right now. I want to make a club that will help and educate the people!"

"That's a noble goal," says Dahlia, and there's no _but_ in her voice. Enjolras lets out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

"I'm so glad you think so."

" _I'm_ glad you're thinking about this. A project like this, could you say that it shows you have some hope for the future?"

Enjolras hadn't really thought about it that way, but now that Dahlia's mentioned it, he can't deny that there might be something to it. Hope for the future. That's not too bad at all, right? He'd like to have that. So he smiles sweetly, and nods.

"Yeah. I think I'm going to get there."

\--

Enjolras comes out of Dahlia's office to see Eponine and Marius in the waiting room. He does a double-take, because that's not what he'd been expecting at all, but when they wave him over, he goes, having decided that it's probably not a hallucination.

"Hi," he says, only a little cautiously. "What are you doing here?"

"Courfeyrac sent us to pick you up," says Marius. "I guess he's busy doing some project at work, and he couldn't come get you."

Enjolras blinks at this. "Oh. But I could take an Uber."

"Well, now you don't have to." Eponine stands, graceful like a wildcat. "C'mon, let's get you home. I'll probably sign up for therapy or something if I stay here any longer."

"That's not bad. Is it?"

"Yeah. I don't have insurance."

"Oh!" Enjolras grabs at her sleeve and holds onto it, needing her to stay where she is until he can make his thoughts slow down enough to speak them out loud. "Eponine, I have— I mean, I know— there's options! You don't have to have insurance. You can still do stuff."

"Yeah? Like what? This place seems pretty upscale. I don't think they'd take a case like me for free."

"Pro-bono therapy," says Marius, which makes Enjolras laugh, but he sobers again quickly.

"Eponine! Do you want resources? I have some!"

"You do?" 

"Yeah! They might be helpful. Or at least, I think they could be."

"Well, sure." Eponine chuckles a little bit. "You're cute, Enjolras. I hope your resources do help me."

Unsure as he is as to why he needs to be _cute_ to everyone all the time, Enjolras still glows to himself, buzzing with the knowledge that his project might be helpful. He doesn't know for sure what Eponine needs; he's not a case manager, and he doesn't have the skill set to do anything fancy. But he _can_ provide resources— and education, if needed— and that's nothing to sneeze at. He's pretty proud of himself, really. Maybe it's selfish and egocentric for him to be thinking about himself when he's supposed to be helping someone else, but he can't really help it. It's just so wonderful to know that his efforts could mean something. This is a good thing that will benefit the world in the guise of one person, so it doesn't seem too awful to be happy about it, all things considered. 

Marius and Eponine are cheerful as they walk to the car together. They're chattering about some strange person who'd come into the law office where they work, asking to order a sandwich. 

"I would think he was just being stupid," Eponine says. "Except he was an old, rich white guy, and I guess he thought I should do whatever he wanted, including get him food. I told him I'm just a translator, but he pulled out his wallet and went, 'translate this!'"

Marius snorts. "What did you do?"

"It was fifty bucks. I got him a goddamn sandwich."

"Speaking of sandwiches," says Marius, wandering away from the subject in that way he has, "I'm hungry. Do you guys want some fruit?"

Enjolras looks where he's pointing. Sure enough, there's a fruit stand on the sidewalk, halfway between them and the parking lot. A few weeks ago, the sight of it would have sent him running for the hills, regardless of whether he was supposed to eat anything or not, but now he just smiles.

"I'm not hungry, but if you want to go, I'll go with you.”

"Are you sure?" asks Marius. "Look, they have berries. You like berries, right?"

"I mean yeah.”

"I'll buy some for you if you can try to eat it."

"Um…”

"I see chili," interrupts Eponine. "C'mon, let's go get some. You can decide on the way."

In the end, Enjolras ends up getting a little cup of strawberries and watermelon with chili (which Eponine insists isn't actually that spicy). It looks like a lot, sitting there in the cup like that, but when he compares it to the heaping portions that Marius and Eponine have, it doesn't seem quite as bad. And, with the shining fruit juice and terra-cotta dusting of chili powder, it even looks appetizing, if a little too delicious. 

"I'm proud of you," says Marius, as he watches him look down into his cup. "Remember Courf's party when I tried to give you fruit and you ran away?"

Enjolras blushes, embarrassed at having to visit this not-particularly-wonderful memory. "Sorry," he mumbles.

"No, no. I'm sorry you feel bad. I legitimately am proud of you, okay? You've come far."

"Oh. Then, thank you. I'm trying."

"You are," says Eponine. "I mean, dude. You even stayed in the room while we ate pizza the other day."

It doesn't sound that great when Eponine says it like that, because it seems like a very small feat indeed, but Enjolras remembers how hard that had been, smelling the oil and grease and wanting to flee for what felt like his life's safeguarding, listening to his friends munching and chattering away like a flock of birds, trying to keep his courage up even when everyone kept touching him with their dirty hands (only wiped, not washed), and yeah, maybe it's not such a small thing after all. 

"So can you eat your fruit?"

Enjolras looks down into his cup, and then back up at Marius. "Oh. Yeah, I guess I can eat some. Maybe not all. I already ate a granola bar today."

Enjolras's friends used to look disapproving when he said things like that, but now Eponine and Marius just nod, accepting the statement for what it is. It's nice. He really is lucky to have wonderful, kind friends like this who are willing to learn how to make him comfortable, even if they don't necessarily approve of the poor state he's in. A wave of love and affection crashes through him, and he rushes at Eponine and throws his arms around her. 

"Thank you so much. I can't believe I get to be your friend, because you're so amazing, and so nice, and I'm just so happy. I'm so lucky!"

Eponine pats him, laughing. "Okay, okay."

"Where's my hug?" asks Marius, unintentionally sounding like the fuckboys that Enjolras has to avoid practically everyday. He isn't one, though, and Enjolras in no way wants to avoid him, so he pulls away from Eponine and steps happily into his arms.

"You're nice, too, Marius!"

Marius is really stiff and uncomfortable to hug, sort of like a really skinny, elbow-y tree. At least he seems affectionate, in any case. He pats Enjolras on the butt (probably not on purpose; his arms are just really gangly and long) and head-bumps him, likely in an attempt to give him a kiss.

"You're such a good boy," he says. Eponine scoffs.

"What, is he a cat or something?"

Enjolras had been thinking the same thing, but he doesn't want to be rude, because he knows Marius really had meant well, so he pats him on the back before stepping away.

"It's okay. I took it in a good way."

Marius positively beams at this. "See? He likes me."

"Of course."

Eponine laughs and jostles them both with a bony elbow. She's more lighthearted these days, and her teasing is so much kinder, so much less acerbic than it used to be. Enjolras thinks he's not the only one who's been growing a lot recently. It makes him smile— everyone's becoming the best versions of themselves, and that's as much as any one of them could hope for. He pulls on Eponine's hand, suddenly more willing to try his fruit. 

"Come on, let's sit!"

The three of them end up perched on the day-warmed concrete wall near the fruit stand, filtering the sunshine out of the brisk early-spring air. Once Enjolras has eaten some of his fruit (only about half, as he'd predicted, but it's still something), he nestles close to Eponine and lays his head on her shoulder, content to let the breeze stir his hair and play across his skin. 

"It's nice today," he says.

It's a rather inane statement by itself, or at least not a very striking one, but Eponine seems to know what he means, that it's _nice_ today, that he's feeling okay for once, and maybe there's a little something in the air that's melting him out of the old static chill he's been in for so long— spring fever in reverse. She turns and kisses him on the forehead with fruit-sweet lips.

"I'm glad."

Marius scoots up and puts his arm around Enjolras's waist. He doesn't say anything, maybe because he doesn't feel it's needed, but he obviously understands, too. He's strong in his own way, quiet, maybe a bit awkward— and entirely well-meaning. And scrawny though he is, he still feels like a shelter, just like Eponine, just like any of their friends, in fact. They're all so amazing, so truly _good_. Enjolras doesn't know what he did to deserve them, but he knows he's grateful that he did it.

And so, for this moment, things are okay. Enjolras is going to allow himself the luxury of staying here, right here, right now, and not thinking about anything but what's going on in the present moment. Sure, it's self-indulgent, and it might even be selfish, but it's so rarely possible that it feels okay to do it, just for now.

Enjolras closes his eyes, letting the soft blue-sky wind push back against him. It doesn't matter what happens tomorrow, or tonight, or even an hour from now. In this present moment, right here, everything's okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tungle](http://synchronysymphony.tumblr.com)


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjo is growing and becoming more like his book self do u see it~

It's two days before Enjolras can put his plan into action, but once he does, he does so with a vengeance. He calls a meeting of all his friends, plus Mr. Fauchelevent and Mr. Fauchelevent's friend Javert who apparently knows the exact details about what's legal and what's not in every situation, and who is prepared to tell everyone about it in no uncertain terms. He's pretty scary, and unfortunately punctual, but Enjolras knows the issue of legality is an important one, so he takes a shot of whiskey in his room to fortify himself, and practically glues himself to Grantaire's side to gain some reassurance until everyone else arrives.

Cosette and Musichetta show up first, recounting some ridiculous story of Eponine's. They can barely get through the door because they're holding their sides and laughing so hard, and it makes Enjolras's heart warm up to see them. He jumps up and fetches them some tea from the kitchen, and sits them down on the couch so he and Grantaire and Combeferre can hear the story, too.

They're all laughing together when Marius, Courfeyrac, and Bossuet come piling in. Immediately, Marius and Courfeyrac come to plant kisses on Cosette's cheeks, which is very cute, and Bossuet climbs onto Musichetta's lap and stays there. Out of the corner of his eye, Enjolras can see Combeferre swallow hard and turn away, still struggling to reconcile himself with his own loneliness. Enjolras takes him by the hand and drags him to the kitchen to help him get tea for the newcomers so he won't have to see any more couple-y greeting rituals. 

By the time they get back, having taken their time to prepare tea and talk quietly together, the rest of their friends have arrived. Montparnasse stands up and greets Enjolras with a kiss on the forehead and a gentle hug (much to the surprise of the others), and leads him back to the couch to sit down.

"We don't need anything," he says. "Or even if we do, someone else can get it. You relax."

"But I want some snacks," protests Marius. Montparnasse glares at him with an icy chill stormcloud on his face.

"Get them yourself, fuckboy."

Poor Marius wilts back down. Enjolras starts fluttering and flapping his hand, panicking, until Montparnasse bodily picks him up and sets him on Grantaire's lap like some kind of portable doll.

"Stop worrying. Marius is a big boy. He can get his own snacks."

"But-!"

"I'll get some," says Courfeyrac, and Enjolras feels guilty about that too until Cosette stands up to go with him, very obviously grabbing his butt as they make their way into the kitchen. They're going to have couple time, so they won't mind, so everything's okay. Enjolras relaxes back against Grantaire's chest.

"Thank you, Mont."

"Nothin' to thank me for, duckling."

There is, but Enjolras doesn't push the point. Instead, he smiles. "How's everything going with you?"

"It's good." Montparnasse's voice is genuinely pleased. "You know the thing I was telling you about? I'm doing it. Paperwork and everything."

"Really? That's wonderful! I'm so proud of you!" Enjolras reaches out his hands, and Montparnasse takes them so he can squeeze them.

"Aww, well. I thought I'd try, anyway."

"What thing is this?" Grantaire wants to know. Montparnasse exchanges a look with Enjolras, then at his enthusiastic nod, clears his throat, and speaks.

"So, uh, don't laugh at me or nothing, but… I decided to get my GED and finally go to college."

"Really? That's great!"

"Ah, well. You know. It's something to do."

"Stop that," says Enjolras. "Everyone, please appreciate Mont and how hard he's working to follow his dreams! It's not easy, but he's going for it. I think that's amazing, don't you?"

"I do." Grantaire grins and slaps Montparnasse on the arm, the only place he can conveniently reach. "Dude, it's awesome. Not everyone can do that."

Enjolras knows Grantaire is talking primarily about himself, since he and Jehan are the only ones in their friend group who aren't interested in higher education (Eponine finally has her degree after years of struggle, Bahorel reluctantly passed the bar last year, and even Feuilly is taking night classes at Santa Monica City College), but there's no bitterness or jealousy in his voice, just flat-out appreciation. It makes Enjolras smile.

"He's proud of you," he coos, as if that really needed to be pointed out. Montparnasse and Grantaire both look embarrassed.

"Aw, it's nothing to be proud of—”

"I mean, I'm just being a normal friend—”

Enjolras tugs on Montparnasse's hands and pulls him onto the couch beside him. Then he gives him and Grantaire matching cheek kisses. 

"You're both amazing."

Now both Grantaire and Montparnasse look embarrassed. They sort of grunt like they think they’re being macho or something, and start shifting around in their seats.

"It's nothing," says Grantaire gruffly. "You're just being too nice, like you always are."

"Yeah," agrees Montparnasse. "Don't worry about it, you know?"

This doesn't really make sense, so Enjolras looks at him in fascination, trying to figure out what's got him so flustered. It's kind of cute, really. He pokes him in the shoulder.

"Are you shy?"

Montparnasse starts sputtering like some kind of dilapidated lawnmower. "What? Of course not! I'm pretty scary, you know, I mean I'm darkness personified!”

He's so edgy. Enjolras can't help but laugh. "You're nice. That's what you are."

"No, _you_..." Montparnasse trails off, seemingly realizing that he's making the argument of a middle-schooler. Enjolras laughs again and pats him on the cheek. This moment is so peaceful and sweet.

The others seem to agree, because they come piling over to the couch for their own hugs. Joly climbs up on Grantaire's lap next to Enjolras, and they're both small enough (or Grantaire is large enough) that they fit without pushing each other off. Joly definitely seems pleased with his new seat. He's grinning, positively radiating light and cheer. 

"Enjolras!" he says. "Are you comfortable? Can we stay like this for your meeting?"

Enjolras doesn't mind, so he shrugs. "I mean, if you want?"

"I do want." Joly turns his chin. "Is that all right with you, 'Aire?"

"I mean, I'm not going to say no."

"Perfect!"

"What is this meeting anyway?" Musichetta wants to know. "You were so mysterious about it. _Come to my apartment at 6:00 and bring paper and passion_ , like what does that even mean?"

Enjolras wiggles his eyebrows as best he can. He's still not very good at it. "You shall see."

At this opportune moment, Mr. Fauchelevent finally arrives, bearing a big basket and an even bigger smile. "Hello children," he says kindly. "Would any of you like some bread?"

The others hasten to grab pieces of bread out of the basket like hungry ducks (though according to Cosette, ducks shouldn't eat bread, so the comparison is a flawed one), and Bossuet happily distributes some to Joly and Grantaire, who are rather trapped under Enjolras's slight weight. Enjolras refuses Bossuet's offered roll, but he also doesn't move when Grantaire and Joly start munching away beside him, so he's pretty proud of himself. 

"Is it good?" he asks.

"It's hella," declaims Grantaire loudly. "Mr. F! Where'd you get this, man? It's amazing!"

Mr. Fauchelevent looks pleased. "I'm glad you think so. I made it."

"You _made_ it?"

"Oh yes. I like bread quite a bit."

"You sure do," mumbles Javert, whom Enjolras had almost forgotten was there. Mr. Fauchelevent turns to him with the same gracious smile.

"Please, you must take some as well."

To everyone's surprise, Javert does, grumbling and scowling the whole time. Mr. Fauchelevent seems to expect this, though, and just smiles like it's the happiest thing that's happened all day. Cosette whispers to Enjolras that they're always like this. 

"They genuinely do like each other," she says. "Sometimes it's hard to tell, but they're good friends. They go way back."

They seem more like frenemies, actually, but Enjolras won't quibble. He wonders if he'll be like that with Combeferre in twenty years. Somehow, he doubts it. The thought reminds him of why he's here, though, so he clears his throat and speaks. 

"Now that everyone has their bread, let's get started?"

There's a general ripple of assent through the room, ending with Marius enthusiastically shouting "darn right!" and blushing when he realizes he yelled into near-silence. Enjolras holds in a laugh— he has to be professional now— and coughs again. 

"So, I'm here to propose an idea to all of you. If it's not your thing, that's totally fine, but please listen, at least?"

Grantaire squeezes him around the middle. "Of course, baby."

Reassured, Enjolras goes on. "Now, you know about my resource project. It's going well, and I'm getting more and more of them, but I feel like it's time to expand. So, with that in mind, I want to make a club for the purpose of providing education and help for those who need it. It would be like a normal nonprofit organization, just on a smaller scale, since I'm still a student and can't reasonably dedicate all my time to it."

Combeferre smiles to himself, looking pleased. Enjolras is sure he's remembering their previous conversation about the topic. "This seems like a wonderful goal," he says. 

"I agree." Cosette sits up straight from where she'd been lounging across Marius and Courfeyrac's laps. "Enjolras, you know that I'm here to help you no matter what. Whatever you need, whatever you're planning, I'm behind you all the way."

"Same," says Grantaire, and "me too," come Combeferre and Courfeyrac's assurances at the exact same time. 

Enjolras thinks his face might freeze from smiling so hard. He turns around to kiss Grantaire (the only person close enough to do so), trying to show all of his love and appreciation as best he can. 

"I love you," he says as soon as he comes away to breathe. "I love all of you so much. I can't believe you're willing to help me with this, even though you don't know that many details yet!"

"Of course," Cosette tells him. "We told you, we're always behind you. And we trust that you're going to plan this perfectly, just like you plan everything. You're very logical and good at thinking of contingencies, you know."

Thinking or _over_ -thinking, but again, Enjolras isn't about to argue. He reins in the rest of his ebullience for now, determined to wait until after his very first club meeting before he starts squeaking like the little kitten that everyone seems to think he is. Instead, he tries for a restrained, elegant smile. 

"I'm so glad. I'm going to do my best, so don't worry! Would you like to hear more details, though?"

"Of course we would," says Cosette. "Let us have 'em."

Enjolras turns and taps Grantaire. "Can I use your tablet?"

"Sure thing. It's in my bag, across the room."

Eponine is across the room. Enjolras waves at her. "Ep, can I use Grantaire's tablet?"

Eponine doesn't look happy about having to play pony express, but she digs through the bag and brings the tablet over anyway. "Here you go, your royal highness," she says. 

Enjolras sticks out his tongue regally. "Thank you."

The google docs folder where he stores his resources and relevant project information is growing steadily, to the point where it's difficult to find things now. He should probably think about asking Combeferre to show him a new type of filing system. Still, it doesn't take him too long to pull up the document he's made to share with everyone.

"Here we go," he says. "First of all, if you decide to help out, it doesn't have to be overwhelming or anything. However much time you have to devote to this is more than enough. Second, you don't have to help at all. I know it might be weird to join a club where it's your friend who's telling you what to do, not someone you can look up to. But I really believe that this is important, and I believe we can truly make a difference if we try."

"I agree," says Combeferre. "Everyone, this is something that affects us all. Maybe we're privileged enough not to have to deal with some of these issues, but not everyone is so fortunate. In fact, _we_ aren't so fortunate in some ways. So let's do this! I really believe in Enjolras."

"Me too," says Grantaire with no hesitation. "Love, I don't think there's anything in this world that I believe in more than you. I'm with you no matter what."

"So am I," says Cosette.

This is all that's needed. Everyone else, even Javert and Mr. Fauchelevent, all start speaking at once, declaring their allegiance to Enjolras and his new club. They're enthusiastic about it, too; Enjolras is sure they mean it, and aren't just agreeing to be nice. He thinks he might cry. This is everything, right here.

"I can't tell you how much this means to me," he says. "More importantly, though, it means so much to the world. You're all heroes, did you know that?"

"I knew it," says Eponine. "This is just another day in my life. I'm awesome." Cosette shoves her, but she's laughing. 

“You’re a butt, that’s what you are.”

Now Marius raises his hand. "Enjolras, can you tell us what we just agreed to? What are we going to be doing?"

Right, that was the point of getting the tablet. Enjolras scrolls down the document to the "goals" section. "So," he says. "Basically, we want to provide education and resources to everyone who needs them. If people ask us about health concerns, for example, we want to have a list of places we can point them to, along with a brief bit of information on the issue they're asking about, or at least a place to find it. That doesn't mean we have to know everything, but if we can provide a jumping-off place where they can get started, I think that would help."

"How will they access us?" asks Cosette. "It's not like we have a clinic or anything."

Mr. Fauchelevent clears his throat. "Actually, I think I can help with that. The church that Cosette and I go to is thinking of starting a free clinic in the evenings, where people can come for a hot meal and some medical care. If you'd like, I could talk to Pastor Myriel and see how we could get you involved."

"Oh!" Cosette claps her hands, then grabs Enjolras's and claps those, too. "I can't believe I didn't think of that. What a wonderful idea! Let's talk to him tomorrow?"

"I can do you one better," says Mr. Fauchelevent, smiling. "Let me call him right now. Excuse me."

He ducks out of the room, cell phone already in hand. Enjolras looks at Cosette in open-mouthed delight.

"Your dad is amazing!"

"Yeah, he kind of is," Cosette agrees. "Don't worry, he's definitely going to convince Pastor Myriel to help out."

Enjolras knows he will. Mr. Fauchelevent is probably one of the best people he's ever met, so any church that he and Cosette belong to must be truly deserving of the Christian name. Caring for others and helping the world, isn't that what religion is supposed to be all about? He doesn't know for sure, not having grown up in a religious home, but this doesn't seem bad at all. 

"So," he says. "If we can depend on getting the clinic like you say, that would solve a lot of problems. We could do a once-a-week thing where we went to the clinic for a few hours and offered help to anyone who needed it. That would take care of location problems, and finding an audience both at once."

"That would be perfect," agrees Combeferre. "But what about regulations? Do we need special dispensation for this?"

There's a low-pitched cough from the corner. Suddenly, Enjolras remembers that Mr. Fauchelevent wasn't the only experienced adult in the room. The realization makes him stiffen in nervousness. 

"Yes?"

"I can help you," says Javert, unexpected as anything. "I admit, I'm not entirely familiar with the proceedings in a case like this, but I can find out for you."

"Really?"

"Yes. You're doing a good thing here, son."

"It's not me," Enjolras protests, but his friends shake their heads, and Cosette bops him on the arm (her idea of a slap).

"It was your idea. Take some credit for once, will you?"

"But you're all helping so much. And Mr. Fauchelevent, he's really the one who made it happen."

"Son, you're never going to get anywhere with that attitude," says Javert. "You're adorable, and it's good that you're humble. But how is anyone going to take you seriously when you don't even take _yourself_ seriously?"

"Ooh." 

That's something to think about right there. Enjolras scratches his head, painfully aware that all his friends are holding their breaths, probably thinking that he's going to start crying or something. 

Screw that, though. He's not _that_ fragile (at least, not nowadays).

"I think you're right, sir," he says. "I mean, I have to be confident, right? Otherwise, no one will want to follow me."

"That's right."

"I don't think you should be telling him these things," protests Courfeyrac, but Javert just speaks over him.

"Do you want to know what worked for me?"

Advice from an elder! Enjolras gets off of Grantaire's lap and comes over to listen. "What is it?"

"Fake it."

"I've been told we should never do that," says Eponine cheekily. Grantaire winks at her.

"Believe me, he never has to."

Enjolras ignores them both, although he's blushing deeply (and not just because it's true). He loves his friends, but they're too much sometimes. "What do you mean, sir?"

"Pretend to be confident," says Javert. "No one can read your mind, so they don't have to know that you're scared, or that you think you don't know what you're doing. If you pretend you do, people will follow you, and do as you say."

"But I don't want them to do what I say if I don't know what I'm doing," Enjolras protests. Javert sniffs.

"You know more than you think. Trust me."

Enjolras thinks about it. Sure, he hates himself, and he's about 98% sure that anything he does will end in disaster, but he's also oddly invested in this new project, and he can't deny that it would help if people didn't dismiss him out of hand. Maybe there's some truth to what Javert is saying, and what he'd said earlier. But still…

"What if I make a mistake, though?"

"Then you make a mistake. Do you honestly think you're the only one to fuck up?"

Enjolras feels like he just heard a grandpa swear. He giggles nervously. "Wouldn't it be embarrassing, though? If I was all confident, and then things went wrong?"

"Not as much as you think," says Javert. He _does_ sound like he knows what he's talking about, maybe because he's using the confidence trick, and Enjolras doesn't feel as strong an urge to argue as he'd thought he would. 

"So you think people would forgive me?"

"Sure. Hell, they might not even notice that you made a mistake if you play it right. I'm not saying you should be cocky; if someone calls you out, own up to it, and do better next time. But act confident. Pretend you know what you're doing. Because I think you do."

Enjolras wants to try. He sits up as straight as he can and purses his lips. "Courfeyrac!"

Courfeyrac jumps to attention. "What's up?"

"Could you please get me some coffee?"

"Sure. Keurig okay?"

Well, shit. It worked. Courfeyrac _hates_ fetching things for people when he's comfortable, which is why Enjolras had asked him, but he hadn't been expecting it to work. Now, Courfeyrac is in the kitchen, mug in hand. Enjolras should probably stop him before things progress too far.

"Courf," he says. "You don't actually have to do that. I was just seeing if I could be confident."

Courfeyrac cocks his head. "You don't want coffee?"

Now that he mentions it, Enjolras really does want coffee, especially since he's eaten some salad today, so the extra caffeine probably won't upset his tummy. He feels a bit bad about it, but Courfeyrac is already working on it, and besides, he might as well see this thing through. So he nods, only a little bit timidly. 

"If that's okay."

"Of course. Milk? Sugar?"

"Both, please."

The request comes almost naturally, with only a split-second hesitation when it comes to thinking about the extra calories, so he doesn't even notice until Grantaire blows a kiss at him across the room. "Proud of you, babe."

It's embarrassing that he still blushes at things like this, but there's no getting around it. He's just soft, and that's okay.

"Thank you, love."

Grantaire reaches out his hands and wiggles them, maybe because he genuinely thinks it's romantic, but more likely because he's purposefully trying to be weird and look like a squid or something.

"Come here."

"So I'm not enough for you?" Joly jokes. Grantaire kisses him loudly on the head. 

"Don't worry, no one could replace you."

Musichetta beckons him over now, though, and Enjolras comes back and settles on the floor between Grantaire's knees. Grantaire starts to smooth his hair. 

"Silky boy."

Yeah, he's purposefully trying to be weird. It's okay; Enjolras loves it, and he loves him. 

"I love you," he says.

"Gross." Courfeyrac, coming back over to give Enjolras his coffee, wrinkles his nose. "You're both gross."

" _You're_ gross," Enjolras retorts, because he was the one who had to walk in on Courfeyrac and Marius serenading each other in his room that one time, and there's no coming back from Marius attempting to sing Elvis. Courfeyrac doesn't seem too bothered by this.

"No, you."

At this point, Mr. Fauchelevent breaks up their dazzling repartee by coming back into the room. He's grinning ear-to-ear. Enjolras can practically see his halo.

"Pastor Myriel agreed," he says, at Enjolras's questioning look.

"He agreed? Really really?"

"Really really."

Enjolras carefully sets aside his coffee cup, then jumps to his feet and runs to Mr. Fauchelevent to throw his arms around him. 

"Thank you, thank you," he babbles, hardly sure what's coming out of his mouth, only that it's not enough, compared to the gratitude and happiness in his head. "I can't believe you did this for us, and made everything so good. You really fixed things, you know? Please tell me— can I do anything for you?"

Mr. Fauchelevent's hugs are officially the best. He picks Enjolras off the ground a few inches, apparently only with one arm, because he pats him on the head with the other hand. 

"It's nothing, my dear," he says. "The best thing you could possibly do would be to continue this project."

"I can! Because of you! But no, for you! Is there anything I can do for you?"

Mr. Fauchelevent releases him and looks into his eyes, holding him by the shoulders in that way that's always so touching in movies. "I just want to see you happy. That's everything I could ask for."

Enjolras starts to cry. He doesn't want to, really, but he can't really stop himself, or even think about what he's doing before the tears start coming. It's okay; they aren't sad tears. He's just so overwhelmed with love and thankfulness that his heart can't hold it in any longer.

"Thank you," he sobs. "I know I'm just some random kid, but you make me feel so welcome, like I really have a place in this world. I don't know how I got lucky enough to know you!"

"Aww, okay. Come here."

Mr. Fauchelevent pulls him in for a hug and pats his back while he sniffles and tries to get ahold of himself. Now he understands why these are called bear hugs; he feels like he's being cuddled by the world's friendliest grizzly. It's warm and bracing in a way that makes him want to go out and renew his quest to change the world. This must be what people mean when they talk about liking hugs from their dads. 

Not, he thinks as he finally pulls away and goes back to sit with Grantaire, that he's trying to adopt Cosette's dad as his own. That would be weird. The poor man has enough to deal with already, so surely he wouldn't appreciate having a brand-new son with more problems than he could shake a stick at. But still, the thought makes him glow inside with a lightness that he just can't shake. 

It's nice to be loved. Not only by Mr. Fauchelevent, if he does (Enjolras doesn't want to presume), but by his friends as well. Maybe he doesn't love himself, and all the pop-psychology literature would tell him he'll never find love with anyone else until he does, but to his mind, that's wrong. He has something, anyway, and he knows it's the first step towards the future.

\--

"Let's go downtown!"

Enjolras looks up from his laptop. He's writing a paper for his comparative politics class, and he's so immersed in it that for a second, Courfeyrac's words don't even make sense.

"What?"

"You need a break! We all do! Let's go downtown. We can do all the stereotypical LA things."

"Stereotypical LA things?"

"Sure. We can go to the Last Bookstore for Combeferre, and the LACMA for Grantaire, and the Grand Central Market for food, and Angels' Flight for you, because you're an angel, and I want to take a picture of you in front of it, and it'll be really cute. C'mon, we'll take the metro. It'll be easy-peasy."

Enjolras considers it. He's not making much progress on his paper, that's true, because he really does need a break, only he's been too stubborn to take one. But can he really justify taking a whole day just to hang out with his friends?

Yes, he decides, looking once more at Courfeyrac's bright face. This is _exactly_ the sort of thing he should justify.

"Okay," he says, and smiles when Courfeyrac lets out a delighted whoop. "When are we going?"

"Right now," says Courfeyrac. "Everyone else is already getting ready with Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta."

"Aww. Were you not going to invite me?"

"No, of course I was! I just thought this would be the best way to get you to come."

"Oh. That's kinda cute."

"Damn right. Now come on." Courfeyrac scoops him up and carries him bridal-style into the bedroom, finally setting him down on the bed, lightly so he can bounce. "Get dressed! What are you going to wear?"

"Hmm." Enjolras looks at himself in the mirror. He's been doing that more, lately. Somehow, even though he's gained a bit of weight back, he doesn't look as hopelessly gigantic as he did before, and even though he knows this is problematic, he can't help but be happy about it. "Do you want to match?" he asks.

Courfeyrac throws his arms in the air and screams for a solid few seconds. "Yes! Hallelujah and praise to the heavens, _yes_! I thought I would never get to match with you again. I love you, Enjolras! I love you! Come here!"

He leaps onto the bed and starts to smother Enjolras in little kisses, light and sweet like fondant butterflies. Enjolras playfully bats at him, but he doesn't really want to push him away. This is too nice for that, even though it's a little confusing, too.

"Is it that big a deal?" he wants to know. "We used to match all the time."

"But we haven't in so long! Hey, hey. Enjolras." Courfeyrac pulls away from him, just far enough that he can hold him by the chin instead. "Are you feeling better? Is that what this means?"

Enjolras hums. "I think so. I mean, I can't guarantee that I won't start feeling bad again, but for the moment… Yeah. I feel better."

Courfeyrac squeals in delight. He sounds for all the world like a happy hamster. "I'm so glad! I knew this day would come. I've been hoping and praying so hard, and now you're feeling better, and you can even wear your cute clothes again! This is the best news ever. I'm so happy, my love, I really am."

"I am too," Enjolras says, because he is, even though he doesn't know if it's that big of a deal in the grand scheme of things. He smiles up at Courfeyrac. "Do you wanna pick an outfit for me?"

"Hell yeah I do." Courfeyrac goes to the closet and begins sorting through the clothes there, singing happily (and less-than tunefully) to some song that he probably made up in the shower. "Coco-coconut, and a man-go, yes they're all for me! And with a coco-coconut— ah." He stops abruptly and turns around with a wide grin. "Found it."

He holds up Enjolras's spangled crop top, emblazoned on the front with a stylized star. It used to be one of Enjolras's favorite things to wear, until he got uncomfortable with showing off too much of him, and now seeing it is like greeting an old friend. He's had it shoved in the back of the closet so long that he barely remembers what it looks like.

"That one?" he asks.

"This one!" Courfeyrac opens his jacket to reveal that he, too, is wearing the large version of the top, settled snugly over his round waist. "Come on, baby, let's do this!"

Enjolras gets changed and does his hair and makeup while Courfeyrac chatters on excitedly about how much fun they're going to have, and how excited he is, and how much he loves everyone. He's probably not even tipsy; he's just kind of like this. Enjolras loves it about him.

"You're amazing," he says finally, once he's all ready. He goes to the big mirror to look at himself in total, only halfway registering Courfeyrac gasping dramatically in the background. He's been scared to look at himself, but the sum total isn't actually too bad. Maybe his tummy puffs out a little bit, and maybe his arms aren't as skinny as they used to be, and what's with his thighs, anyway? Why did he decide to wear shorts? He's so fat. It's just proof that he's been letting himself go like the hedonist that he is. He's fat, and that’s…

But wait. _Stop it, Enjolras_! He doesn't look bad at all. Everyone needs to have some fat on them; it's the only way to survive. And there's nothing wrong with being chubby, anyway. After all, Courfeyrac and Musichetta and Bahorel are, and they're all absolutely gorgeous. So it's okay, even if it feels weird to show off this much skin. Enjolras nods at himself in the mirror. "It's okay!"

Courfeyrac lets out a long breath. "I'm so glad. You were looking a little worried for a second there."

"Yeah, but I did some talk-backs and now I'm ready to go."

"Perfect!" Courfeyrac grabs Enjolras's mini backpack, which he's been filling with essentials, and hands it over. "Here you go. Now, are you ready to head out?"

"I'm ready!"

Without a word of warning, Courfeyrac scoops Enjolras up in his arms and carries him to the door, only stopping to put on his shoes on the way out. He carries him all the way down to the front of the apartment, finally setting him on his feet when they get to the car. However, he does open the door and help him inside, sort of chivalrously, and sort of like he's helping a young child. 

"In you go," he says.

Enjolras really isn't the baby that everyone seems to think he is. But he'll let it go for now.

Once he and Courfeyrac arrive at Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet's apartment, it's only a matter of minutes for them to collect coins and Uber down to the bus stop. Parking is always horrendous in LA, especially in downtown, so they're going to take advantage of public transportation and save themselves some headaches and tears.

The bus is crowded, but Enjolras doesn't mind. He sits down on Grantaire's lap, snuggled inside his coat, his strong arms protecting him from the leers and not-so-accidental touches of the people around them. This is the best way to travel, he thinks, leaning up for a quick kiss. Everyone should have a warm, cuddly partner to sit on during bus rides. 

Certainly, Joly seems to think so. He, too, is cushioned happily on his partners' laps, one butt cheek on Musichetta, and one on Bossuet, enthusiastically showing them pictures on Instagram. Enjolras couldn't say for certain, but he's 97% sure that they're of himself. Musichetta and Bossuet seem pleased enough with this, though, and all three of them are absorbed in social media for the entirety of the ride. 

Downtown LA always feels like a breath of air, paradoxical though it is. There's something about the soaring height of the buildings, the grit of the street, even the trash piled in the gutter— it speaks a language like a mother tongue. Enjolras takes a deep breath of the slightly-marijuana-scented air, just appreciating the bright reality of it all, before he catches Grantaire's hand in his own and starts to pull him down the stained sidewalk. 

"Come on! 'Ferre wants to go to the Last Bookstore, so let's go!"

Grantaire smiles indulgently down at him. "You're the boss."

They all take way too long in the bookstore, but it's worth it. Enjolras navigates up to the labyrinth on the second floor, and after posing for innumerable pictures by Courfeyrac and his redoubtable Nikon camera, finds the history section and sits down by the window to read an opinion piece on the French Revolution. Grantaire sits with him, one arm around his waist and the other free to gesticulate wildly as he makes what he thinks are witty points about what they're reading. He's an overly-loquacious loudmouth, but Enjolras wouldn't want it any other way. 

Finally, Combeferre approaches them, dragged by a bored-looking Bahorel. He's clutching an armful of books and pleading earnestly for just ten more minutes to look at the foreign language section. Bahorel doesn't seem impressed with this, but Enjolras, who's now reading Camus in French (and translating for Grantaire), argues for the validity of foreign language, and finally, Combeferre does get his ten minutes in heaven. 

In the end, surprisingly, it's Jehan who makes them leave. They've just bought a brand-new book of Juvenal, and they want to sit at a cafe and artistically peruse it. Unfortunately for them and their aesthetic image, the only cafe nearby is Starbucks, but Enjolras reminds them that Starbucks may be a capitalist chain, but they treat their workers fairly and well, and have good business practices, and finally, they agree to go there. And it really is nice; Enjolras gets three espresso shots, and Cosette gets a strawberry frapuccino, and the others get something in between these two extremes, and everyone crowds around two tables to talk and take artistic pictures of each other while they pretend not to be looking. 

After awhile, though, this pales. Enjolras is thrumming with energy from his espresso shots, and he keeps tapping on the table. Marius says it's giving him a headache, but Enjolras can't seem to stop, because even when Grantaire physically holds his hands down, he starts to bounce his leg instead, and that's worse. Besides, the others are all getting restless too, so, much to Jehan's displeasure, they all decide to leave. 

It's not too far to walk to the Grand Central Market from where they are. They all set out in a big, noisy group like a flock of birds, taking over the sidewalks and alarming the tourists by making faces at them and giving them strange directions when they don't ask for them. (At least, Bahorel, Grantaire, and Musichetta do this. They're all a little pretentious in their own way.)

Enjolras remembers how it was before, when he could barely walk into Westwood by himself. He's come a long way, hasn't he? He does a little skip-and-dance down the sidewalk, twirling around as he hangs off Grantaire's hand. Grantaire laughs at him, and Courfeyrac yells something about "cute babies in the city," but he doesn't complain. Something inside him feels weightless, like the block of cement that's been tied to his chest has been taken off, and he can walk (and dance) forward as a free man. It's oddly light. Enjolras knows he hasn't felt this way in a long time.

A few months, even weeks ago, he would have despaired at this, thinking that this feeling would be fleeting, and not attainable for a very long time. But now, here with the people he loves most, in the city he loves most, he feels almost like he can live in the moment, just like all the therapists say. And this moment is soft, bright, light and golden as the day, so he might as well take advantage of it and live it as it comes. Who knows, maybe tomorrow will be awful. But that won't negate what he's feeling now.

And what he's feeling now? It's something suspiciously close to happiness.

Enjolras has been to the Grand Central Market before. He lives in LA, after all. But he's always been intimidated by the noise and crowds, not to mention all the food, and he's never had a good time. Even now, he feels a thrill of panic as the rush of people start to sweep him into their midst, and rather melodramatically, he wonders if he'll be trampled to death, or tossed like a piece of debris on the ocean waves forever, never to emerge again. But Grantaire grabs hold of him before he can be lost forever, and takes him back to the front entrance while their friends plunge fearlessly into the throng.

"Hey," he says. "Is this okay? Is it too much for you?"

Enjolras tries to master his breathing. It mostly works. "No, it's okay. But please don't leave me."

"I won't. I promise. I'll be with you the whole time."

As if to make good on this promise, Grantaire wraps his big hands around Enjolras's waist and pulls him up to nestle comfortably at the crook of his shoulder. He's so strong that he can carry Enjolras easily in one arm, just like he's toting a package or something, and sometimes (usually) that's really hot, but right now, it's just convenient. Enjolras wraps his arms around Grantaire's neck and cuddles up close.

"Is this okay?"

"Yes, babydoll. Promise."

Now that he doesn't have to worry about being trampled in some kind of tourist-shopper stampede, Enjolras feels much more disposed to enjoy the Market. He rides around contentedly, happy to let Grantaire wander and look at whatever he wants (which is all the food— he must be hungry, because he spends an extraordinarily long time staring at the offerings in each booth). The bright colors and smells and flurries of chatter and activity in the air aren't so scary when he feels safe like this, so by the time they've gotten to the real market section, filled with clear plastic containers of peppers and pasta and herbs and spices, fresh vegetables, and exuberant shoppers, he's almost willing to walk on his own. (He won’t, because that would just make him anxious all over again. But it's the principle of the thing.) 

Grantaire finally stops in front of a plastic drawer of dried squid. He stares at it for a minute, like it contains all the secrets of the universe, then turns solemnly to look down at Enjolras.

"Are you hungry, sweetheart? Do you want lunch?"

Enjolras shrugs. He doesn't really know what _hungry_ feels like, but he thinks he could eat. "If you want."

"Do you wanna find the others, then?"

"Okay!"

Grantaire's face brightens. He carries Enjolras to one of the tables against the side wall and sets him down in one of the chairs, taking the one next to it. With one hand, he circles Enjolras's fingers in his own, and with the other, he takes out his phone and calls Siri.

"Siri, call Courfeyrac."

"Calling _Courfeyrac bee-glitter-heart-dancing-woman_."

Enjolras laughs. "That's cute. What are my emojis?"

"Suns, hearts, and a rainbow flag."

Before Enjolras can reply to this, Courfeyrac answers his phone, predictably the easiest of their friends to get in touch with. "Yo 'Aire! What's the Good, my dude?"

"The Good?"

"Yeah, like good news. But abbreviated."

"Huh." 

"Where are you?" asks Enjolras, while Grantaire is pondering this linguistic development. Courfeyrac makes a weird chuckling noise, and speaks in a purposefully low voice that's probably meant to be creepy.

"Right behind you."

"What the—”

"Surprise!"

Courfeyrac comes springing up and flings his arms around Enjolras. He's so enthusiastic that he lifts him bodily out of his seat. It's terrifying for a second, but it's also Courfeyrac, so Enjolras knows there's only about a 20% chance that he'll be dropped on the floor. 

"Hi," he says.

"We saw you sitting there and started coming over before Grantaire even called," explains Joly. "We were really hoping we could do the _right behind you_ thing, so thank you for giving us a chance."

"Sure thing."

"So what's up?" asks Eponine. "Are you two done having disgusting couple time now?"

"It's not disgusting," protests Enjolras, but then Grantaire gently cups his face and turns him around for a kiss and a forehead touch, and okay, maybe they're a little disgusting. 

"We want food," says Grantaire, still gazing deeply into Enjolras's eyes. "We're going to sit together and eat with a single fork and all that."

Eponine slaps him, but she's laughing, and she nods in agreement after. "Sure, I'm hungry too. Is that okay with y'all?"

"I'm always here for food," agrees Courfeyrac, and Bossuet nods.

"Let's get tacos."

Tacos are barely okay now. They're messy and have to be held in the hand, and besides, they're a little too delicious, but Enjolras thinks he could eat some if everyone else was doing it too. He adds his voice to the chorus of agreement. 

"Tacos are yummy. I'm down!"

"Great." Courfeyrac touches his nose. "Nose-goes-for-who-goes-starting-now!"

Enjolras, fairly well-acquainted with Courfeyrac and his grade-school-sourced methods of decision making, is able to touch his nose fairly quickly. Bahorel and Feuilly aren't quite so lucky.

"Are you kidding," bellows Bahorel, seeing that he's been left in the metaphorical dust. "This better not mean we have to buy them all, too."

Courfeyrac clucks soothingly. "No, no. Don't worry. Eponine is buying."

"I'm _what_ now?"

"Just kidding."

"You better be."

Feuilly and Bahorel gather money from everyone, and make their way off to the taco stand. In the meantime, Joly insists that everyone else entertain themselves by creating new species of cool bugs (he elects himself the arbiter of what's cool and what's not). Combeferre is in the lead with his creation of a moth that shoots lasers out of its front legs, and Musichetta is contesting this on the grounds that moths are flammable, when Bahorel and Feuilly finally return, carrying enough tacos to feed an army.

"Order up!" shouts Feuilly boisterously. He begins to distribute tacos to everyone, seemingly at random, though he does make sure to give Enjolras the ones without meat, and assure Jehan that theirs has no pork in it. He's always so careful, never wanting to do anything to inconvenience his friends in any way, even though he sometimes pretends to be more rowdy and bro-ish than he really is.

It's nice to sit and eat with everyone. Enjolras doesn't even remember the last time he did this, or at least without some kind of edited menu or other restriction. But here he is, eating the exact same food as everyone else, in the same amounts, and he's almost confident enough to think that he can finish it. He takes a minute to Instagram his food, millennial and proud, before finally stealing Grantaire's salsa and drenching his tacos with it. He has a sensitive stomach, and even if he didn't, he really can't handle spice of any type, but that doesn't stop him from trying to build his tolerance on days when he feels especially up to the task. It always makes his friends laugh at him, though. Feuilly slides him a water bottle.

"We thought you might need this."

It's been so _long_ since they all ate together. Enjolras has no idea how they remembered his sensitive palate and the effects hot sauce always has on him, but the realization makes tears spring to his eyes. Feuilly looks a little alarmed.

"You haven't even eaten anything yet."

"No, it's not the spice. I just, I can't believe you remembered that I'll probably need water. You remembered!"

"Of course. We might not have eaten together for awhile, but we always remember."

This makes Enjolras want to curl up and bawl like a baby, but he supposes that's not really appropriate for a public place. He contents himself with leaning up and kissing Feuilly on the cheek, and blowing a kiss to Bahorel because he's too far away to touch without climbing all over the table. 

"I love you!"

"Cutest reaction to a water bottle ever," says Grantaire. Enjolras bats at him.

"Shut up. I'm just really happy."

"Aww. Then I'm happy, too."

The others seem to echo this sentiment. They're all munching happily on their tacos by now, making short work of the pile of food on the table. Cosette and Bahorel in particular are going to town, racing each other to see how quickly they can scarf theirs down. It's sort of weird, Enjolras thinks, but he's not judging. He's happy with whatever makes them happy (even if it's a little gross).

It gets harder and harder the more Enjolras eats, but finally, he manages to finish up most of his tacos. Grantaire helps him out at the end, seeing that he's pushed to his limit. The food is a little too delicious, and there's a little too much of it to be comfortable, but Enjolras is really proud of himself anyway. That was a normal meal he just ate, normal food in a normal portion at a normal social setting. That's definitely something to be proud of. Maybe, he thinks, allowing the wings in his heart to spread a little bit, just maybe he's recovering a little.

That's what recovery is, he's realized. It's not linear, and it doesn't go by leaps and bounds. Sometimes, it's falling behind and relapsing and planning death. And sometimes, it's feeling content outside a taco stand, enjoying life with friends. They're both important parts of recovery, even if the first one isn't so fun, and they're both measurelessly vital stops on the whole, uncharted road of life.

Because life _is_ uncharted. That's something Enjolras has had to learn. Maybe he doesn't know what tomorrow will bring, but that's okay. It's a journey, and one that he's fighting every day to keep traveling. Who's to say he won't keep his constant rate of success?

Suddenly smiling, Enjolras leans his head against Grantaire's shoulder, just admiring how far he's come. There's something in his heart, warming him from the inside out, and now he knows what it is: it's _hope_ , burning bright like rare and transient fire.

 

_Epilogue_

 

Enjolras looks around his assembled group of friends, suddenly nervous. Sure, these are the people he loves most in the world, and sure, they're on his side with this, but he's still worried that he's going to screw up. Today is the first meeting of his new club, and he really _really_ wants it to go well.

There's some new people here, he realizes, people from his school, and whom his friends managed to find somewhere. Bahorel's gym friend Rosa is here with her girlfriend Michelle— the same Michelle who'd helped Enjolras so much in the hospital those terrible months ago. Enjolras had run to her with a cry and embraced her before realizing she might not remember him, at which point, he'd backed off, mumbling awkwardly to himself. But Michelle had swept him up into a huge hug and twirled him around the room, and after that, everything had been okay. 

Mr. Fauchelevent is here, too, along with Javert, a confident, smiling woman who calls herself Favorite, Zéphine, and Floréal, who apparently knows them all. As mature adults, they're sitting staidly in the corner sipping tea, though occasionally someone will crack a joke, and all five of them will burst out laughing. Their presence isn't even scary, and Enjolras is grateful for that. 

Courfeyrac's aunt Lila is also here. She's managed to get away from the house for a few hours, and here she is, chatting happily with Combeferre, and looking much less careworn than before. Enjolras realizes that he and his friends' visits to her must be helping, and he rejoices.

All in all, it's a bigger group than he would have thought, especially for a first meeting like this. His friends must have gone really hard in advertising for him. How lucky he is! Not everyone could boast of having friends so devoted and wonderful. With them by his side, surely he can accomplish anything. 

Cosette's voice brings him out of his thoughts. She's standing next to him, holding out a cup and smiling. 

"Coffee?"

"Oh, thank you." Enjolras takes the cup and has a drink. It's perfectly warm and sweet and settles nicely in his stomach. He beams at Cosette. "This is perfect!"

"Good. Grantaire made it."

"The cafe staff let him?"

"Yeah, I guess he knows them or something."

This still doesn't seem right, but Enjolras decides to let it go. He takes one more drink, looking slowly around the room. Everyone seems so happy and excited right now, but will they continue to be so once he starts speaking? He looks at Cosette, doubt clouding his eyes.

"Do you think it's going to go okay?"

"I _know_ it's going to go okay." Cosette laughs, chucking him under the chin. "Enjolras, you're the toughest, most resilient person I know. You're going to get through this, and you're going to be _amazing_. If you can lead an OT group in the hospital, you can tell a group of your friends what you're passionate about. Right?"

She has a point. Enjolras gives her a quick hug (careful not to spill the coffee on her) and a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you so much. I'm going to do my best!"

"And that's always good enough."

They exchange smiles, just delighting in the fact that this is true and that they're both on the way to believing it, and then Enjolras goes up to the table in the front of the room (they've taken over the back area of the cafe for this meeting, probably thanks to Grantaire's influence). Seeing this, everyone goes quiet, waiting for him to speak.

Enjolras feels nervous for a second, looking out at all the people and thinking what he's about to do, but he takes a second just to breathe, center himself, remind himself why what he's doing is so important. And then, somehow, it doesn't seem so impossible anymore. He sets his coffee on the table and smiles at his assembled friends.

"So. Shall we get this meeting started?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading~ you are a star!!!! ♥♥♥  
> [tumblr](http://synchronysymphony.tumblr.com)


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